


An Abandoned Town Called Hope

by SixtySevenChevy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Endverse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-01
Updated: 2013-10-01
Packaged: 2017-12-28 04:34:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 41,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/987708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SixtySevenChevy/pseuds/SixtySevenChevy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam hasn’t been <em>Sam</em> for a few months now. Cas and Dean have been holed up in an abandoned town in Maine, living in a drugstore and keeping far away from all outside contact for fear of making it worse. They plan to continue doing so for as long as possible—until Crowley puts out an offer to mankind: Return the runaway Prince of Hell, and he’ll get a message through to Heaven, pleading with them to try one last time to win their war. Dean and Cas know they must do just that, but then Chuck shows up, Becky in tow. One by one, more and more old friends—and some enemies—join the pack, until they have enough to track down this Prince once and for all. But can they find him, and will Crowley hold his word? More importantly, can the angels beat Lucifer?</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Abandoned Town Called Hope

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, here goes.
> 
> Title: An Abandoned Town Called Hope  
> Author: volcanonights  
> Artist: lucyisherenow  
> Fandom/Genre: SPN  
> Pairing(s): Dean/Cas, background Chuck/Becky  
> Rating: Strong T/Light R  
> Word Count: 41,000   
> Warnings: Endverse, major character death, alcohol abuse, non-prescription drug abuse, language, some violence. Basically, if it's in the show, we got it. You should also know that no one in this is happy, and that Dean and Cas don't have the healthiest relationship. 
> 
> Thank you to my wonderful artist who was also my ever-patient beta! Lucy, you rock. I should also mention that I don't own anything to do with Supernatural, and that any mistakes left in this massive fic are mine and that my beta is not to blame.

_It’s a lovely day_ , he thinks, staring up at the sky. It’s light blue, without even a wisp of cloud, and the leaves on the trees are dark green, dappling the grass with shadow. A slight breeze caresses his face and ruffles his hair, playing in the cornstalks at the edge of the yard. He grins and lifts his face to the sun, reveling in the warmth.

“Cas!” Dean shouts from the open window of his car. He sounds angry, and hurt, and there’s a hint of fear there, too. Cas drops his grin and turns to face the hunter, perplexed. “We have to go. Now.” He pauses.

“Sam called.”

And just like that, he’s abandoning the gorgeous summer day and rushing to the passenger seat of the Impala, jumping in and slamming the door behind him, taking shallow breaths and trying to calm his wildly beating heart.

Sam hasn’t called in _years._

“Why did he call?” Cas asks, gripping the edge of the seat as the car peels out of the meadow, throwing up puffs of dust and creating ruts that will remain in the soil for months to come. Dean doesn’t answer, just pushes the gas pedal closer to the floor, white knuckles clutching the steering wheel like a sailor clutches at a lifeboat in a hurricane.

“He said he’s sick. He needs help,” Dean eventually grates out through clenched teeth.

“Did he say how sick?”

“Just sick.” Dean takes a corner on two wheels, and Cas tries to hide his surprised gasp. He’s always hated it when Dean drove like this.

“Anything else? Where is he?” Cas asks. He doesn’t want to; he knows Dean ought to be left alone when his little brother is involved, and that he could lose his temper or quit talking to Cas for days on end, but he has to ask. He needs to know.

“Detroit,” Dean whispers, as if his voice won’t be able to handle getting louder without cracking. Cas can feel himself go completely still.

“No,” he breathes, without time to stop himself. The engine growls and Dean shuts his eyes for a second, just long enough to make Cas nearly panic as the tires swerve on the road, nearly crossing the white line at the edge. Cas’ heart thuds in his chest and he feels like crying.

“Yeah,” Dean replies, and his voice is choked. Cas can sense the tears in the same way he can sense oncoming rain, or when Dean is getting the flu. He just knows it’s coming.

They lapse into silence, neither daring to talk lest they start crying, or screaming, or arguing. Once, Cas glances over to look at Dean and is unsurprised to see one silent tear rolling down his cheek. Neither turns the radio on. Neither rolls the windows down, or repositions his legs, or coughs or sneezes or so much as breathes heavily. The air is alive with tension, roiling with it, like a dark cloud of thoughts unspoken.

After a while Dean slows down a bit, but not by much. They’re still going well over the speed limit, trees and buildings and other cars flying past in blurs of shadow and bursts of color. The tires still hum over the road, occasionally buzzing when Dean crosses the median or takes a corner too sharply. Both men still clutch at their seats, tense and lost in their own minds.

It should take them about twelve hours to get to Sam.

At the rate Dean is going, it’ll take about eight.

XXXXX

They get to Detroit at about midnight. Cas doesn’t know where in Detroit Sam is, but Dean seems to; Sam must have mentioned it on the phone. He continues to drive as if all of hell is riding on his heels—and, if they don’t get to Sam in time, it might be. Cas dreads the moment when they inevitably get stuck in some sort of traffic.

He was right to dread. Dean takes a corner at a bit over normal speed, having slowed down to a more moderate pace once they got to more of a civilization, and shouts a curse. There’s a long line of cars, trucks, and vans leading in the direction of downtown. The exact direction Dean was going.

“It’ll be okay,” Cas says soothingly, reaching over to rub Dean’s shoulder. Dean flinches away from him, growling.

“No, it won’t. You remember what Lucifer said,” Dean whispers harshly.

“It will be _fine,”_ Cas insists.

The phone rings. It’s Sam.

Cas manages to get to it first, picking it up and taking the call. “Hello?”

“Cas?” It’s Sam. He sounds weak and broken, as if he’s been throwing up, but it’s definitely him. Cas wants to comfort him, though he’s not sure why. He ought to hate Sam. He ought to want to slit his throat, not hug him.

“Yes, Sam, it’s me,” Cas says, but his voice won’t come out right. He feels choked, and there’s a lump in his throat that he can’t seem to swallow, and there are tears welling in his eyes. Dean has gone utterly still, and it doesn’t take an angel to tell he’s straining his hearing and doing his best to eavesdrop. “How are you?”

Sam barks out a harsh laugh. When he speaks, he’s sarcastic and too casual, and it’s not hard to imagine that voice with a little more smoothness, just a bit more power, and entirely different. “I’ve got Stage Four stomach cancer, Cas.”

Cas’ brain shuts down. “You’ve got what?”

“Stomach cancer. Doctors say it’s been there for years.” Sam sounds like himself, only very, very not. He’s too casual, too flippant, too accepting. He sounds as if he’s given up. And Cas knows that it’s probably a good thing, deep down in the part of him that’s still angelic, but the rest of him screams that _no, this is wrong, this can’t be happening._

“How?” Cas murmurs.

“They aren’t sure. I’m not sure. My doctor says I’ve had it for years, probably not even noticing it, and now it’s making itself known. I don’t think stomach cancer works that way, though,” Sam says. Cas can picture him, lying on a hospital bed, long legs splayed out and tips of his feet dangling off the end, clutching the phone in one hand and nervously playing with the tassels of his hospital gown with the other.

“It doesn’t,” Cas whispers. He’s not sure why his voice is so quiet. Maybe it’s just the sudden press of impending grief.

“Yeah, that’s what I told them. Who knows, maybe my doctor is a demon,” Sam jokes, but it falls flat. Cas winces at the pain in his voice. He sounds desperate, hopeless, and Cas can’t blame him. Stage Four stomach cancer is inoperable. It’s fatal, in most cases.

“Might be,” Cas says, and then Dean is reaching over and plucking the phone from his hand. Cas protests, but Dean’s talking into it now, voice grumbling and angry, but at the same time gentle and soothing.

“Sammy?” he pleads. “We’re going to be there soon. Traffic, you know how it is.” He chokes on a laugh.

Cas can hear Sam saying something, and then Dean laughs in earnest, his face lighting up and teeth glinting in the light from the streetlamps. All too soon it’s over, Dean closing off and the shadows creeping back in, clinging to his face and draping themselves around his neck, weighting his shoulders and drawing them into a posture of hopelessness.

“Yeah, Cas is still here,” Dean says. He pauses. “Yeah.” He hands the phone out to Cas, eyes downcast.

Cas takes the phone with shaking hands. He tries in vain to steady his voice. “Sam?”

“Take care of him, you hear?” Sam demands. Cas almost nods before remembering that Sam can’t see him.

“Yeah,” he says.

“They say I’ve only got a few weeks, maybe a month, Cas,” Sam whispers. He coughs and Cas can hear the pain in his voice when he continues speaking. “You have to keep Dean alive for me.”

“I promise,” Cas says, voice stronger than he feels. “I swear on my Father.”

Sam laughs, just a weak little breath of air that could easily have been a sigh. “Thanks, Cas. I—I’m sorry, you know.”

“Don’t apologize,” Cas orders, unsure of what he’s feeling. His angelic programming takes over, making him more soldier than friend, and he lets himself retreat into one tiny corner of his mind to weep. He can’t lose Sam.

It occurs to him that he hasn’t had him in a long time.

“But I am, Cas. I’m so sorry. And now I’m dying,” Sam says. Cas bites his bottom lip, hard, and tries not to cry. The youngest Winchester sounds so helpless, so alone, so deeply in pain. It’s no wonder Dean kept them driving all day.

“Stop please,” Cas pleads. “Stop apologizing.”

“I can’t,” Sam whispers, and the line goes silent but for his labored breathing. Cas can hear shouting and beeping, and he thinks his heart stops. In the back of his mind, Jimmy Novak is peering out cautiously, listening, and whispering what that means. Cas tells him to be quiet, and reminds him that he ought to be dead. Jimmy obliges, grumbling about stupid angels and being brought back to life.

The dial tone greets Cas’ ears, and he numbly hits the button to end the call. He puts the cell phone in the glove compartment and turns to stare out the window, trying to keep his tears hidden from Dean. The traffic starts to move again before Dean says anything.

XXXXX

They reach the hospital well after visiting hours, but a quick flash of a fake FBI badge gets them both in in a heartbeat. Cas insists that they take the elevator, not trusting Dean’s legs to carry them up four flights of stairs to where Sam is housed. Dean shifts from foot to foot, biting his bottom lip, while they wait for the elevator doors to open. On the ride up, he’s constantly pacing, head down and not paying any attention to the angel next to him.

The hospital is white and sterile, like all hospitals, but somehow worse, number, more sinister. Cas can feel a slight uneasiness about the place, just a slight prickling of his angelic senses that warns him to turn back, to grab the people he loves and run.

Of course, upon seeing Sam, he doesn’t think he’d be capable of running.

Sam is asleep when they get there, under enough medication to kill a small horse. He’s horribly thin, bones protruding and eyes sunken. His breathing is shallow and labored. He’s hooked up to at least seven different machines, some beeping and some pumping more painkillers into his bloodstream.

Dean sinks to the floor, knees giving out. Cas grabs him, hoists him to his feet, and deposits him on the chair next to Sam’s bed. Dean gasps in a few breaths, eyes wide and horrified. Sam doesn’t stir.

Cas tries to shut off emotion, he really does, but he can’t. Instead he feels tears prickling at his eyes and a sharp, stabbing pain in the back of his throat and his head feels like someone’s accidently turned on the heater, hot and ready to burst.

“Sammy,” Dean whispers, but it sounds more like a prayer, quiet and breathy, and full of so much grief. Until this moment, Cas thought that a “broken heart” was just hype and melodrama. It’s not until Sam’s hand picks its way to Dean’s does he understand.

“Dean,” Sam groans, eyes not opening.

Dean nearly jumps out of his boots. He stares uncomprehendingly down at Sam’s hand where it rests next to his, panting and crying. And Cas is crying too.

“Sam!” Dean half-shouts, clutching his little brother’s hand hard enough that it should hurt. Sam’s eyelids twitch, opening up about halfway to reveal tired, blood-flecked eyes. The corners of his mouth twitch upward, and Cas can see bloodstains on his sunken cheeks.

“Hey,” Sam sighs.

Dean’s chest heaves and he leans closer to Sam. Cas comes closer to the bed, hovering around Dean’s shoulder. Sam is paler, up close, and his eyes have dark purple crescent beneath them. Cas can see his veins through his neck, thin purple and blue lines that snake up from the collar of his thin hospital gown and under his hair. His pulse is like a bird’s, fast and light.

“Sammy,” Dean says, as if it’s the only thing he can say. It probably is.

“Cas?” Sam asks, just a thin rattle of sound, inaudible to most human ears. Cas can hear it. He knows Dean can hear it, attuned to his brother’s every move as he is. Sometimes, back before they separated, Dean would have nightmares about something awful happening to Sam. When they woke up and discussed it, Sam would have had the same nightmares in regards to Dean.

“I’m here, Sam,” Cas murmurs, getting close as he can to Sam’s pale face without overbalancing. Sam painstakingly drags in a breath and sighs, rolling his eyes. Cas is surprised to see humor there in their depths.

“Name. Stop,” Sam whispers.

Dean forces a laugh, but it’s far from a real laugh. It’s more of a strangled gasp. “What, you’re sick of your own name now?”

Sam makes an affirmative noise in the back of his throat, eyes rolling up and lids sliding closed again. Dean shudders out a sigh that’s half sob. Cas puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder, more for himself than for Dean. He needs something to ground himself, or he’ll explode into light and grace and fly apart in an explosion that will blind everyone in the building. In other words, he’ll die.

You’ll live, Jimmy Novak whispers at the back of Cas’ mind, _trust me. To grieve is human._

Cas tells him to be quiet, and not interfere with the affairs of angels. Jimmy obediently goes quiet, but not before reassuring Cas again that he’ll live. Cas is beginning to resent that constant presence at the back of his mind.

“Sam?” Dean asks once, but there’s no response. Sam is still breathing, but only just. His breath rattles through his throat. A death rattle.

“He’s asleep,” Cas murmurs. Dean nods weakly, eyes searching his brother’s slack-jawed face.

“He’s dying,” Dean says, stunned.

“I’m sorry,” Cas says simply.

Dean looks up at him then, anguish written on every feature, tears streaming freely down his cheeks. Cas grips Dean’s shoulder, pressing his fingers into the scar that’s underneath the leather jacket and three layers of shirts. Dean leans into his touch, limp and completely pliant.

“Come on,” Cas whispers, “Let’s find a hotel nearby. We can stay the night there, or at least check in so we have a place to stay if…” He doesn’t finish his sentence, but he doesn’t have to. They both know what’s going to happen. Sam won’t be coming home with them.

Dean nods, presumably unable to speak. Can guides him to his feet, making sure he doesn’t collapse again, and walks them into the hallway. Down the hall, there’s a woman leaning against the wall and sobbing brokenly. Dean doesn’t look at her, but Cas can’t look away. She’s their immediate future, after all.

They run into a doctor about halfway to the elevator. Literally. All three men go to the floor. Cas stops and helps the doctor to his feet, but Dean stays on the floor, staring blankly at his hands. Cas doesn’t get him up yet.

“Sorry,” the doctor says, offering them an abashed smile.

“It’s alright,” Cas rasps past the lump in his throat.

“Are you Sam Winchester’s family?” the doctor asks, head tilting to the side a bit. Cas nods, kicking Dean lightly with the toe of his borrowed boot. Dean doesn’t stir. “Hi, I’m Doctor Smith. I’m your brother’s oncologist.”

“Castiel,” Cas says, holding out a hand. Doctor Smith shakes it, offering a smile that Cas can’t return. “That’s Dean. He’s Sam’s brother.”

Dean doesn’t look up. He continues to stare at his hands, folded neatly in his lap, legs folded underneath his body. Doctor Smith glances down at him and back up at Cas, understanding lighting up his kind hazel eyes. Cas shrugs a bit, but he can’t really bring himself to make any comment. Doctor Smith seems to understand.

“I’m sorry,” Doctor Smith murmurs, but he sounds like he’s done this a hundred times. He probably has.

“Me too,” Cas replies, wincing at how broken he sounds. He’s an angel; he should never sound like that. He ought to be joyful, singing his Father’s praises, rejoicing in the wonder of the world He created. Instead, he’s here, in a human hospital, shaking hands with a human man while another grieves at his feet, with tears welling in borrowed eyes.

“Sam is an unusual case,” Doctor Smith says, launching right in to his spiel. Cas wants to resent him for it, but he can’t. He can sense the pain coming off this man. It’s not as strong as that roiling off Dean, but present nonetheless. “He was transported here by helicopter from a small town about a hundred miles away. When he got here, he was throwing up blood, so naturally we immediately did some tests. It’s honestly amazing he’s lived this long. He must be a fighter.”

“He is,” Cas murmurs, eyes downcast. Dean still hasn’t moved. Cas is beginning to worry.

“The way we figured, Sam had about two weeks, a month at most.” The doctor rubs a hand on the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at the men in front of him. “Now, after his episode today, we give him about three or four days at most.”

Cas can feel his resolve crumble, the walls of Jericho coming crashing down in his mind. Jimmy Novak screams at the sudden agony flooding every inch, but Cas ignores him. Three days, four at most. Sam is dying. Sam will be gone. No more Sam.

He shudders.

“It’s inoperable, like most stomach cancer, and we haven’t got enough time to try chemo or anything. I’m very sorry,” Doctor Smith says. Cas nods numbly. Dean’s shoulders shake in a silent sob. “All we can do is make him comfortable.”

“I understand,” Cas says, but he really doesn’t. He really, truly doesn’t. His brain, quick and clever and entirely too intelligent to be human as it is, has shut off. Jimmy Novak seems to have left the premises, and Cas can’t blame him. He wouldn’t want to be trapped in such a pit of agony either.

“You can stay here tonight, if you want,” the doctor offers, and Cas nods. And just like that Doctor Smith is gone, hurrying off to comfort the woman still sobbing at the end of the hallway. Cas drops to his knees beside Dean and does something he never thought he’d do—he pulls Dean into a hug. Dean clings to him, hands fisting in the trench coat. Cas can feel the hunter shaking.

“I can’t do this, Cas,” Dean whispers against Cas’ neck, tears staining the fabric of Cas’ collar. “I thought I could. Hell, I haven’t seen him in three years. But I can’t do this.”

“We’ll be okay,” Cas whispers back, holding Dean tight. Dean shudders out a sob, going completely limp in Cas’ arms. Cas clings to him, the ever-stoic hunter, as he cries himself to sleep. When Dean is quiet, and only then, does the angel Castiel allow himself to weep, in the middle of the hallway, clinging tightly to the sleeping brother of a dying man.

XXXXX

Cas wakes up leaning against the wall of the hallway, tile cold against his legs and brick hard against his back. Dean is beside him, head lolling sideways and mouth hanging slightly open. Cas stretches, hears his joints popping, and bids Jimmy Novak a good morning, as always. It’s too much of a set tradition to stop, not even with how strange the practice seems to be now that Sam is... 

Jimmy grumbles a response, still unsure about whether or not he wants to be present.

“Dean,” Cas murmurs, tapping Dean lightly on the shoulder. He doesn’t want to wake him, but he has to. He would die if he allowed Dean to miss a second of his time remaining with his brother.

Dean stirs, opens red-rimmed eyes and glares at Cas. Cas bites his tongue and tries to look strong. He can tell from the sudden pain that clouds Dean’s eyes that he didn’t quite make it.

“Good morning,” Cas offers, but Dean doesn’t respond. He didn’t really expect him to. “Come on, let’s go see Sam.” Cas grabs Dean’s hand to pull him to his feet, but once they’re both standing, Dean doesn’t let go. Cas doesn’t really mind. He uses it to lead Dean into Sam’s room.

Sam is awake this time, fully conscious and watching the morning news with heavy-lidded eyes. Cas’ heart nearly leaps out of his chest when Sam turns to him and offers a shaky smile. “Hey guys.”

“Sam,” Cas greets, expecting Dean to say something that will make any further conversation on his part irrelevant. He fully expects Dean to rip his hand away, to run to the bed, to grab his brother and start babbling about cures, or maybe to start apologizing.

But he doesn’t.

Cas stares at Dean in confusion, but he hasn’t moved. His green eyes are flickering all over Sam, taking in every inch of him, but otherwise he hasn’t responded.

Sam, to Cas’ surprise, wheezes. It takes him a second to recognize it as a laugh. It takes him a little longer to realize that Sam is _smiling._

“What?” Cas asks, painfully aware that Dean is still holding his hand.

“Dean. Stopped talking again?” Sam says. Dean nods and shrugs apologetically. “I get it. Trauma does that to you.” Cas is immensely glad to hear Sam use complete sentences. Without being full of medication, Sam is awake and at least semi-alert, much to Cas’ relief.

“He’s done this before?” Cas asks. It seems like all he does is ask questions.

“When Mom died, yeah. And then a little while after Dad,” Sam says. Cas nods, leading Dean closer to the bed. Dean finally lets go of Cas and grabs onto Sam, holding his brother’s wrist as if checking for a pulse. He frowns at his findings, and Sam huffs again.

“You know, stomach cancer can be caused by eating a lot of meat,” Sam murmurs. “All those years of rabbit food for nothing.”

Cas can’t help it; he laughs. Maybe he’s just hysterical, or maybe it was genuinely funny. He’s not sure. All he knows it that his friend, his _brother,_ is making jokes on his deathbed, and that you should always oblige dying men.

“Please don’t go,” he pleads. He doesn’t mean to. He just does.

“Sorry, Cas,” Sam says.

Cas wants to say something else, but Sam is coughing. It sounds like he’s hacking up a lung or two, these deep, wet coughs that rack his body with spasms and leave him gasping for air in between. Cas is taken aback and Dean nearly flees the bed, rushing to the wall and smacking his palm down on a red button.

It takes approximately ten seconds for the room to be flooded with nurses, Doctor Smith close on their heels. Sam is still coughing, blood flecking his teeth and the hand he’s using to cover his mouth. Dean stands back, hand latching on to Cas’, while the nurses do their work.

One of the nurses, a petite blond woman, shouts for something. A short man hands her a syringe full of clear liquid. She uncaps it and flicks the syringe, apologizing to Sam, who is hacking too hard to hear her. She sticks the needle into the IV bag attached to Sam’s arm, and the whole room watches as he gets quieter and quieter, falling asleep with a heavy sigh.

“Stabilized,” a pretty African woman says. There’s a collective murmur, some congratulations on a job well done, and Cas thanks one or two of the nurses. Then there’s a horrible beeping sound, and several alarms go off, and chaos reigns once more.

Dean and Cas are shoved out of the way by the scrambling throng of medical personnel, all of whom are shouting orders at each other. Someone yells for paddles. Cas knows what the means, and he can tell by the way Dean’s hand tightens on his that Dean does, too.

Someone is yelling “Clear!” and someone else is shouting about getting “fifty CCs” of something and someone is crying and it takes Cas a minute to realize it’s him. All at once, everything goes silent but for a slow, steady beeping.

Doctor Smith sounds horrified when he says, “He’s brain-dead.”

XXXXX

Cas can remember being in the hospital once, when they thought he was brain-dead. They were shocked to see him up and talking. He remembers the panic, the confusion, the shouts of astonishment. He remembers the way they apologized profusely for thinking him dead. He remembers the way they all shook his hand and took his temperature and ran test after test and declared him a medical miracle.

That chaos is nothing like this chaos.

Dean is clutching Cas’ hand so hard it hurts, nails digging in deep enough to draw blood, not saying anything but sobbing silently, tears rolling down his face and dripping onto his shirt. Doctor Smith is ordering for the machines to be reset, and several nurses are shouting. There’s still that beeping, repetitive and constant, and the shrill tone of another machine, this one hooked up to sensors on Sam’s head.

“Brain-dead?” Cas breathes numbly.

No.

Not happening.

“Brain-dead,” a tall man in purple scrubs confirms, staring at a monitor.

“Do you know what that means?” asks the petite blond nurse. She rests a hand on Cas’ shoulder, gentle and not at all condescending. He can see that she’s a good person, and nods. The nurse—her name tag says her name is Judy—bites her bottom lip and moves away, helping the man in purple to check the machines again.

The machine continues to make its shrill, monotone sound, no matter what they do to it. Cas pulls Dean into his arms again, holding him and pressing his nose into the leather of Dean’s jacket. Dean doesn’t make a sound, just lets himself be manhandled.

Sam suddenly gasps and sits bolt upright, ripping off the monitors in the process, chest heaving and wiping the blood off his lips. Cas goes utterly still, as does everyone in the room. His voice is hushed and raspy when he says, “Sam?”

Sam looks at him and tilts his head on its side, eyes narrowing. “Not quite.”

Cas can feel his heart stop. It’s a physical sensation. In the back of his mind Jimmy Novak is screaming at him to restart it, but he can’t. It won’t go. His lungs won’t work, either, and neither will his mouth. He is, essentially, frozen by fear.

“Brother,” Lucifer says, swinging Sam’s legs over the side of the bed and stands, pushing a surprised nurse out of the way. “Long time, no spooning,” he pouts.

“No,” Cas chokes out.

“Yes,” Lucifer replies, visibly reveling in the word. There’s an audible hiss at the end. “Finally. Little Sammy is all mine. He certainly took long enough. Do you know how hard it is to give a perfectly healthy person Stage Four cancer?”

“No,” Cas says again, louder this time.

“Oh, yes,” Lucifer repeats. “And now, for the finale!”

XXXXX

Cas wakes up in an alley, sprawled out beside Dean, in Maine.

Jimmy Novak has fallen silent.

When he manages to drag Dean’s unconscious form into a motel room, he turns on the TV.

Detroit has been wiped off the map.

XXXXX

Dean doesn’t wake up for a few days. Cas blames the shock and simply pays for the motel room, keeps the TV turned to the news channel, and watches.

He watches Lucifer take over. He watches the Croatoan virus claim thousands of lives. He watches empires fall and countries go to ruin. He watches, breathless with horror, as the Apocalypse is truly brought about.

All in the same week.

XXXXX

When Dean wakes up, he doesn’t say a word, and Cas continues watching. Dean doesn’t say anything for a few months, and by that time, the world they knew is completely gone, forcing them to scrounge for supplies and learn to live with less and less as time goes on. Cas can see in Dean’s eyes that he knew it would end like this. He can tell by the way Dean’s shoulders hunch that this is the 2014 Zachariah showed him all those years ago.

The first month passes in total silence. Dean doesn’t say a word the entire time, and Cas doesn’t push him. He knows better. Instead of talking they basically ignore each other, going about their daily business without acknowledging the other, speaking to any one, or mentioning their situation. More than once Cas wakes in the dead of night to find Dean shaking, sobbing silently, and does nothing to help him. He knows he ought to do something, but he doesn’t know what.

The second month passes in silence as well, but a more companionable one. Dean smiles sometimes, if Cas can manage to do something to make him break his constant dark mood. He doesn’t know any sign language, but he does write. That’s how he explains what’s happening, why he can’t say anything. _Trauma does that to me. Don’t worry_. Now when Cas wakes in the wee hours of the morning to find Dean awake, he doesn’t cry. He sits silently. Sometimes, Cas even goes to try and comfort him. Dean shrugs him off.

The third month passes in relative silence, emotionally. Cas takes books on sign language from a looted drugstore and gives them to Dean, and though he shakes his head with a sad smile, Dean might even flip through the pages. He knows the signs for _sorry_ and _please_ by heart, and with a little prompting can even remember to spell his name. The one sign he knows above all others is _angel._ It’s the main substitute for Cas’ name now.

In the fourth month, Dean starts making noise again. Just little ones, nothing huge. Sometimes he huffs in place of a laugh, or sighs, or grumbles. Now when he cries—which is rarer and rarer—he whimpers a bit. Cas makes it a point to touch Dean at least once a day. In the beginning, he flinches away from the casual hand on his shoulder, winces when Cas pats his back. Towards the end of the fourth month, Dean actually starts leaning into Cas’ touch.

The fifth month is the tipping point. Dean hasn’t cried in three weeks, and he’s started to do things again. One morning Cas wakes up and Dean is making breakfast on the gas stove in the motel room they still haven’t left, despite the motel having closed down in month two. Cas goes to him and to his surprise, Dean smiles at him. After that, Dean smiles more often, usually at Cas, sometimes at nothing at all. Every time, Cas feels his heart flip, and it takes him a while to realize what that means.

In the sixth month, Dean kisses Cas. It’s a tiny little press of lips to lips and it’s over before Cas is sure what’s happening, but it happens nonetheless. Dean backs away and gives Cas an embarrassed smile, but Cas doesn’t mind. He pulls Dean into a hug, and within seconds Dean is crying on his shoulder. It’s the first time he’s actually shared emotion since Sam… became not Sam. Cas can feel his heart break, and the angels choose that moment to strike. He can feel them leaving, leaving him behind, tearing out his Grace and leaving it to be trampled into the dust by the hordes of people still fleeing the major cities. He doesn’t scream. He doesn’t cry. Instead, he clings to Dean until he leaves deep purple bruises, and tries not to whimper while, for eight hours, the angels make their lack of presence known.

The seventh month is more like normal. They don’t start a relationship—how can you when the world is ending, after all—but the feeling is still there. Cas knows he loves Dean, but he never says anything. It would break Dean, he fears. Dean seems content to treat him like he always did, but with more casual touching, and sometimes a short kiss. The kisses don’t mean anything to Dean, it seems, and Cas tries not to let it hurt him. It does anyway.

In a way, they both go crazy.

XXXXX

It’s eight months before Dean says anything.

Dean’s first word is _dammit._

His second is _Cas._

His third is _why._

His two thousand and seventh is _Sam._

XXXXX

Cas stretches and groans, joints popping and back aching. It’s been eight months since Sam… well, since Sam wasn’t Sam anymore. In all that time, he and Dean have been living in the burned-out remains of an old drugstore in Maine. They’ve been sticking together, and though Cas wants to go try and find other survivors, Dean won’t let him. Cas thinks it’s probably got something to do with Zachariah and the 2014 that should never be.

Dean doesn’t talk much anymore, only if it’s absolutely necessary. They don’t hunt, either. Every once in a while, someone will come in that they knew from the glory days, and they’ll swap stories, but other than that, mentioning the time before is taboo.

Sometimes Cas takes in refugees, but he never tells Dean about it. He knows that Dean knows, but they both pretend that he doesn’t. It makes it easier, in the long run.

They stay tuned to the news on the radio. Some places are still going, like one up in Buster, ten miles to the north, or another down in Miller, about sixty miles to the southwest. The radio stations are manned mostly by civilians now. There aren’t any government systems to stop them, so they give the news to the best of their ability, play a few songs, and give announcements. Cas makes sure to tune in at the right time every day for what the people up in Buster call “Satan Watch.”

This morning, he wakes up and reaches over to turn on their battered radio. It gives static at first, and his heart leaps into his throat, picturing the worst for the Buster Station. After a few seconds of hissing, voices come on.

“Morning, folks. This is Jay, over at Buster Radio Station, and here are your news stories for the day. Just a warning: you might want to sit down and maybe get drunk first.” It’s the same every day, dry humor and blustery confidence. Cas has come to appreciate it.

“And I’m Rodney. I’m new,” says a second, unfamiliar voice.

“And these are your morning announcements,” Jay says.

“If you’re in the area of Harland, we suggest heading over to Gabriel Street, and finding Mr. and Mrs. Gilroy. They’ve managed to get Mr. Gilroy’s dearly departed daddy’s moonshine still working, and for a trade of something worthwhile, you can have all the shine you could want,” Rodney reads off.

Jay laughs. “Yeah, and if you’re anywhere near Greenwhich, you ought to get the hell outta dodge, because we managed to detain a demon who told us they’re planning on gassing it. We’ve had calls from several towns all over the state that say they’ll take you in: Miller, Sandy, Washington, Router, and Columbus all say you’re good to go, just look for their town halls.”

“And over at Gaston, you are invited to join their forces and help save the world. Honestly, we don’t suggest it. If the great Dean Winchester couldn’t do it, I don’t think anyone could,” Jay says.

“Who?” Rodney asks.

Jay crows with laughter. “You don’t know the Winchesters?”

Cas shuts the radio off, but he can’t keep it off for long. The silence is deafening, without Dean in the same room. He usually goes for a run in the mornings, leaving Cas to listen to the radio all by himself. When he turns it back on, Jay is telling the story of Dean Winchester.

“He’s a hunter, and it’s his little brother Satan is possessing. God, he was the best in game,” Jay says, oddly reverent. “When Sam—that’s the brother—died, he kind of went off the deep end. Ran off with an angel and hasn’t been heard from since.”

“Oh, him,” Rodney says. “I’ve heard that story. I just didn’t know his name.”

Jay’s voice is quiet and sad when he responds, almost desperate. “Yeah, not many people do. When he went off-grid folks kind of forgot about him.” He sounds different, pleading, when he speaks again after a short pause. “Listen, if Dean Winchester is out there, or if anyone knows him, we’d like you to tell him we understand. Your baby brother died and the world went to shit. We get it. Just don’t abandon us, man.”

Cas squeezes his eyes shut and wishes they would stop talking. He can feel his nails digging into his palms, leaving little crescent-shaped indents. He stops breathing. It’s easier, now, without Jimmy Novak, to shut down all human bodily functions. He may have not been an angel for three months, but he can still do some things human can’t.

“On a happier note,” Rodney says after a short beat. “We got a phone call this morning, from an unidentified source, and our supervisor says we ought to play it. Here it is, folks. See if you can make heads or tails of it.”

There’s a short burst of static as buttons are pressed, and then a new voice comes on the line. It’s horridly familiar, and makes Cas shout for Dean. Dean, of course, doesn’t hear him. He’s probably too far away.

“Hello, humankind,” the voice says. “I’m Crowley, the King of Hell, and I have a job for you little insects. You see, as King, I need an heir. My heir has gone missing, probably run off in the dead of night. Always was a right bugger… Anyway, I need you to find my Prince. Thanks to a few _certain hunters,_ I’m stuck in Hell, and I can’t go out to bring the little dumbass back myself without being summoned, and even then I’d have to come right back.”

A pause, in which the only sound is Crowley’s heavy sigh and Cas’ rapid breathing.

“There’s something in it for you, of course. See, all of the Unearthly Realms are connected. I’ve got a door to Heaven right here in my office. Heavily locked, of course, but bring my annoying little Prince home, and I’ll toss a message through for you. I’ll tell the angels to come back and save the world.” Cas can picture Crowley’s grin, evil and manipulative.

“And all this can be yours, for such a small price! What’ll it be: save the world or let the world die? If you need any _extra prompting,_ summon 1-800-Crowley. Back to you, Jim!”

Another burst of static as Jay and Rodney get themselves back on air. Cas shuts the radio off, dangerously close to hyperventilating. He hopes Dean gets home before he passes out. It would be rather unpleasant if he had to recover from a nasty fall at the same time that they’re hunting down the Prince of Hell.

And they will hunt him, of this he is certain. They have to. It’s their last hope.

Of course he doesn’t trust Crowley. Crowley probably doesn’t trust him. He’s just going to have to make it work.

The door to the drugstore bangs open and Cas startles, hand going involuntarily to his pocket and grasping the handle on his switchblade. He drops the knife when he sees that it’s just Dean. Dean, holding three plastic bags, offers Cas a small smile that falls when he meets Cas’ eyes. He drops the bags and runs across the room to Cas, grabbing the ex-angel by the arms and shaking him.

“What?” Dean demands.

“The radio,” Cas mumbles. “Crowley was on it.”

“What?” Dean says again, though it’s more confusion than worry.

“He was on the radio. The Prince of Hell has gone missing. He wants humans to find him.”

“Why would we?”

“Because all the Unearthly Realms are connected,” Cas says quietly. Suddenly, the weight of the situation hits him. In all the time since Sam… became not Sam, so many things have happened. Governments have failed, Crotes have run wild over the country, Maine has become the last truly safe zone, hundreds of millions of people have died horribly, Cas has become human, he and Dean have become closer and closer...

This is the first good news.

“Yeah, and?” Dean asks.

“They’re connected. All of them. There’s a door to Hell in Heaven, and another that goes to Purgatory. I remember Gabriel telling me to stay away from them when I was a fledgling. There are doors to Heaven and Hell in Purgatory, and there are doors to Heaven and Purgatory in Hell. Earth is the only one that is cut off. Crowley said that if we found the Prince, he would send a message through to Heaven. Get the angels to come home.”

Dean’s eyes go huge. He staggers, holding on to the lapels of Cas’ coat for support. Cas carefully watches him, gauging his reaction.

“I could say yes to Michael,” Dean whispers. “I could end it all.”

Cas nods, because he knows what Dean does when he goes on a run. He knows that Dean goes out to the very edges of town and screams at the sky, begging for Michael to come and take him, to end it all, to just help him already.

“We have to find the Prince,” Cas murmurs, and Dean nods.

They start gathering materials for a summoning.

XXXXX

In the time since the world ended, Dean has gotten more and more distant and bitter. He’s become hard and scathing, and sometimes it’s all Cas can do to be anywhere near him. When he’s drunk he gets violent. When he’s hung-over he gets weepy. When they reach the day of the month that Sam died—the second, ironically—he gets disturbingly quiet, and doesn’t speak for up to a week.

He always apologizes. Even if something wasn’t his fault, he’s constantly apologizing. He’s sorry that he didn’t say yes earlier. He’s sorry that Cas was cut off from Heaven. He’s sorry that they have to live in a drugstore. He’s sorry that Cas is sick, but he won’t allow him to have any medication stronger than ibuprofen. He’s sorry that he won’t tell Cas why.

He’s sweet, sometimes, so sweet that Cas wonders why he didn’t see it sooner. Dean does his best to keep Cas around, going out of his way to do nice things. It makes Cas hate Zachariah even more, because he knows that it’s his fault Dean is so broken. It’s his fault Dean thinks he has to try this hard.

When they go to bed at night, they have to share a bed. At first it was awkward, with Dean sleeping rigidly as far from Cas as possible. Now it’s softer, and Dean curls himself around Cas, clinging to him, protecting him from anything that could possibly harm him. Even though Dean rarely sleeps without nightmares, it is he who comforts Cas when he wakes in a panic. If Cas tries to return the favor, Dean brushes it off.

Dean rarely shows any sign of affection, but when he does, he makes it count. Sometimes he wakes Cas up early and drags him, half-asleep, onto the roof where they watch the sunrise, hands clasped together. Sometimes he kisses Cas’ forehead right before he falls asleep. Sometimes he kisses him full on the mouth, in broad daylight, for no apparent reason.

They’re together, but they’re not. Cas isn’t really sure what to call it. Technically, he thinks, it ought to count as a relationship, but Dean hasn’t said anything, so he isn’t going to. He wonders, sometimes, if Dean is doing this because he thinks he has to in order to keep Cas from leaving him, or because he wants to. The thought keeps him up at night sometimes.

Cas knows he loves Dean, but he also knows Dean doesn’t love him back. At least, not in the way he wants him to. At most, Cas is a poor replacement for Sam. He doesn’t resent it—but oh how he resents it—and he lives with it because a little show of affection is enough. He just wishes Dean would make up his mind sometimes, but he can’t tell him that. He might break again.

All in all, Dean is like a swing, back and forth from cold and distant to clingy and desperate.

And right now, Cas wouldn’t want him any other way.

END CHAPTER ONE

It’s nightfall by the time they get everything prepared to summon Crowley.

They’d painted a devil’s trap on the floor in front of the door exactly two days after moving in, and now is the first time they get to use it. Dean drags over a table from behind the pharmacy counter and sets up all the necessary ingredients on it, complete with shining silver knife.

“If he tries something funny, don’t be afraid to gank him,” Dean orders gruffly, using the serrated edge of the knife to cut a shallow gash in his palm. Cas winces when Dean sprinkles the red blood into a bowl of other occult things he can’t name. Dean doesn’t so much as flinch.

Dean says the Latin chant, because Cas always stumbles over the words now that he hasn’t got an inherent knowledge of all languages, and there’s a flash of light, and a spark, and a high-pitched ringing sound not unlike that of angel’s true Voices, and then everything is painfully silent.

In the middle of the circle is a girl.

Well, maybe not a girl, but definitely a young female. She’s beautiful, Cas has to admit, what with her dark skin and big hazel eyes and curvy figure. And he doesn’t mean curvy as in huge-tits-and-flat-stomach-and-massive-ass, but as in actual _curves._ She’s shorter than he is, but dressed similarly, in a black trench coat over black t-shirt and jeans.

“What the hell?” she demands in an angry Indian accent. She clears her throat and tries again, this time sounding more like she’s from Wisconsin or thereabouts. “What the hell?”

“Well, you’re not what I expected,” Dean deadpans. The girl—woman?—glares at him.

“Obviously not. Can I go now?” she asks. This time she sounds Spanish. She frowns and coughs, smacking herself in the center of her chest, eyes bugging slightly. “Ugh. Voice issues,” she says in her Indian accent.

“I’m looking for Crowley,” Dean says.

The woman sighs heavily and pinches the bridge of her nose between two fingers. “Well, you got one.” Now she’s sounding Midwestern, but much more resigned.

“One?” Cas asks, before Dean can say anything else. Dean glares at him, but Cas ignores him. He’s too busy focusing on the woman in the center of the devil’s trap. She’s crossed her arms and is leaning against the invisible barrier keeping her inside. Her demeanor is one of defiance.

“Well, dumbasses, there are three. One is dead, one is King of Hell, and the other is me. I’m guessing from the stupid I can sense all over this place that you were trying for a different Crowley.”

“Um, yeah,” Dean says. The woman laughs and takes a step toward him. Dean brings his knife up to rest against her throat. Her only response is to raise one eyebrow, as if daring him to slit her throat. She makes no move to step back.

“Well, then, can I go? I’m kind of in the middle of a date right now…”

“Date?” Cas asks.

“Demons can have girlfriends, too,” she purrs, cocking her head to the side in an imitation of Cas’ exact pose. Dean laughs harshly and takes his knife away, putting the blade back in his pocket.

“Great. I wanted the King of Hell, and I got a regular demon,” Dean sighs, moving to scrap away some of the paint. What with Hell closed off, the second the trap’s seal is broken, she’ll be sucked right back down. “Bye, Crowley.”

“My name is Christie,” she announces. “And I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“And why not?” Dean demands, halfway to the ground, hand in his jacket to reach for his knife once more. Christie laughs and shakes her head, moving one finger side to side. Cas is struck with the thought he, oddly, likes this demon. She has charisma. And she called Dean a dumbass.

“Because, I’ll be sucked back down to Hell, and I have people who can summon me right back out so I can murder your sorry asses,” Christie explains sweetly. Cas snorts and Dean stutters, unable to formulate an actual sentence.

“Who would summon you?” Dean demands.

“Did you miss the part where I said I was on a date?” Christie asks, scrutinizing Dean with eyes that sparkle. She’s enjoying this, Cas realizes.

“So what, I should leave you in the trap forever?” Dean says. “Not happening, sweetheart.”

Christie grins, wide and happy. Her laugh is tinkling and bell-like. “Don’t call me that, dumbass. And no, I want you to let me do a spell. Just a little one, I promise. I won’t hurt you or Feathers the Angel.”

Cas is taken aback that she knows what he is. She smiles at him, slow and sinister, and turns her attention back to Dean. He’s visibly deliberating, and Christie smiles as if she knows she’s won. And she has. “Do what you have to do, just keep me out of it.”

“As you wish,” she purrs, and reaches her hand into empty air, grabs ahold of something, and _pulls._ Cas screams and falls to his knees. He can hear Dean shouting angrily, but he can’t pick out any words. When he looks up, through his haze of pain, he can see Christie frowning down at him with a bloody black feather in one hand. “Sorry Feathers, I didn’t think that would happen.”

“Fine,” Cas gasps, painstakingly climbing to his feet. He flexes wings that he had forgotten about and can feel the space where she tore out a feather, empty and stinging. Christie bites her bottom lip and shrugs apologetically, twirling the feather between two fingers. Cas nods at her. He doesn’t really mind. What are wings to a human?

She whispers something, clutching the feather in her red nails, still twirling it between her two fingers. The feather glows, bright enough that it hurts his eyes, bright enough that he has to look away from the golden, searing purity of it. Christie yelps in pain. All at once the glowing is gone, as if it were never there. The feather has crumbled to ash and floats delicately to the floor, piling up at the demon’s feet.

Christie looks up and wipes tears from her eyes. She steps forward a little and probes the air with a finger, reaching out to touch the edge of the barrier. She grins triumphantly and steps delicately over the thick black line, fist pumping the air when her entire body is out.

“Glad that worked,” she says, turning to Cas. “Sorry again, Feathers. Didn’t know it would hurt you.”

“I’m fine,” Cas insists. Christie shrugs again and turns to glare at Dean.

“Bye, Dumbass. See you on the other side,” she announces, waving sarcastically. She turns on her heel to leave, but stops in her tracks. “Wait. Why were you summoning the King of Hell?” she asks without turning around. She sounds wary and suspicious.

“We’re doing a job for him,” Dean says slowly. Cas glances back and forth between the demon and the hunter. This is the most Dean has said in one day for months.

“What were you doing?” She still hasn’t turned around.

“He lost his Prince. We were going to find him,” Cas says.

Christie whirls back around to face him, curly hair flying. Her hazel eyes are huge and startled, full of fear and completely empty of the sarcastic confidence they held just seconds before. “You’re _what?”_ she demands quietly, eyes casting about as if watching for eavesdroppers.

“Trying to find the Prince of Hell,” Cas repeats.

To his surprise, Christie laughs. It’s a slightly hysterical, disbelieving, belittling laugh, but underneath it’s forced and scared. “Good luck with that, Dumbass and Feathers. Now I know I’ll be seeing you on the other side.”

“Not so fast. Your name is Crowley?” Dean says.

Cas wants to smack himself in the face. Of course. Crowley isn’t exactly a common name.

“It was when I was alive,” Christie says slowly, as if talking to a small child. “I changed it when I was dragged to hell by my ankles.”

“Alright,” Dean says. Cas nods, satisfied. He knows it was a long shot, and that typically hierarchy in the Unearthly Realms doesn’t go by family. It goes by who’s slaughtered the most of the enemy, and this girl doesn’t look the type to slaughter. Tease until they leapt off a bridge, maybe, but not slaughter.

“I’m leaving, then. You got a car?” she says.

Dean shakes his head, and Cas is struck with the sudden realization that they really haven’t got a car. The Impala is probably rotting away somewhere, or else it was destroyed along with all of Detroit. If they needed to get anywhere, they walked, or stole one of the many cars that had been abandoned around their drugstore.

“I suppose I have to steal one then.” Christie sighs, and turns to leave again. She gets as far as the door before she stops, hand pressed up against the glass. She shoves, but it doesn’t budge. She tries again and when nothing happens takes a few steps back, out of the devil’s trap. She frowns and tries the door again. Nothing.

“What the hell did you guys do?” she demands, spinning on her heel again. “He is an angel, right?”

“Used to be,” Cas murmurs, folding his wings closer to his body. Not that he remembers that they’re there, he can’t seem to stop moving them. They shift and flutter, feathers rustling together, a slight whisper that only he can hear. He hopes it isn’t permanent.

_“Used to?”_ Christie repeats shrilly. “Great. Just great. Now I’m stuck with you.”

“What?” Dean says uncomprehendingly.

“I was using the feather of an angel to bind myself to Earth,” she explains, and for the first time there is no sarcasm in her voice. “Instead, I got a defective feather and bound myself to the angel.”

“You’re bound to me?” Cas asks.

“Not like that, Feathers,” Christie says around a grin. “Just bound to be in your general vicinity for the rest of my natural life, yeah.”

“Nice,” Dean mutters. “Cas got another pet demon.”

Cas ignores him. He’s used to it by now, the scathing remarks and barbed comments. He usually pretends Dean hasn’t said anything, and after a while Dean will come to him and apologize, or do something that apologizes for him. Once, he grabbed Cas and slammed him against a wall and kissed him for exactly five minutes and three seconds. Cas isn’t too naïve to understand that they ought to have said something about that, but they didn’t.

“The I guess we ought to get properly acquainted,” Cas says, holding out a hand. “I’m Cas, and this Dean. I’m sure you and Dean will get along. You’re both equally cruel to me.”

Okay, the remark was designed to hurt, and Cas can see that it does. Dean actually, physically flinches, and something dark inside Cas wants to tell him that it was supposed to make him feel bad. But he doesn’t, because there’s an irritated demon in front of him, and because he doesn’t want to make things worse than they already are.

“Christie,” Christie says, “although that’s probably redundant.”

Cas nods, offering her a small smile. She glares in return and stalks off to the children’s medication aisle, leaving Cas alone with a hurting hunter and his own uncomfortable wings.

XXXXX

Cas shifts his weight, unable to get comfortable. He’s sitting on the bed, cross-legged, like he usually does when he wants to relax, but he can’t get his wings to fold up right. They won’t fold back into the ethereal plane like they used to. It’s rather disconcerting.

He can hear Christie on the phone across the store. She’s laughing, practically shrieking with it, and he envies her. She sounds so happy talking to whoever it is she’s with. If only he still had someone to call. The phone systems won’t be up for much longer. It would be a shame to not use them.

Dean is off in the checkout section of the store. From his bed behind the pharmacy counter, Cas can hear him cursing and kicking magazine racks. Something clatters to the floor and Dean yelps in pain. Cas has to consciously stifle a cruel grin.

He’s afraid of what’s happening to him.

There’s a tap on the glass of the drive-through window and Cas startles, wings involuntarily spreading out to make him seem bigger and more threatening. He’s immensely thankful that he’s still able to keep them invisible.

Cas turns to the window and peers out, eyes searching for any threats. He nearly has a heart attack when he sees who it is.

Chuck Shurley grins up at Cas and waves slightly, hands shaking. Cas waves back, slower and much less enthusiastically, confused and startled. Chuck’s face falls a bit, but the smile stays stubbornly stuck. He points behind him, to where a blond woman stands clutching a handgun in white-knuckled hands. Cas doesn’t think he’s met her before.

Cas mouths the words _come inside_ at Chuck. Chuck nods and turns to grab the woman by the wrist, leading her off in the direction of the front doors. She follows reluctantly, staring wide-eyed at Cas through the Plexiglas.

The doors to the drugstore are pushed open, and Cas leaps down from the bed to run to meet the newcomers before Dean can get rid of them. He can hear Dean shouting a greeting, and across the store Christie is yelling at them to be quiet so she can hear.

Chuck is standing protectively in front of his blond companion, arms spread wide. Dean has taken an aggressive stance, hand in his pocket and frown carved deeply on his handsome features. Christie is stalking over from the children’s meds section, phone clutched tight enough to crack the screen. Cas feels like the only sane one.

“Chuck!” he shouts, running up to the man and grabbing him by the shoulder.

Chuck gapes at him. “Wings,” he stutters.

Cas furrows his brows, noticing that the others are looking at him too. Dean looks honestly terrified, and Chuck’s friend seems too awed to do much more than stare. Christie simply looks bored.

“What?”

“Your… wings,” Chuck breathes, pointing at the air around Cas’ shoulders. Cas spins, craning his neck to see behind him—and stops. Feathers rise from his shoulder blades, real, tangible feathers. They’re a dark black color, with streaks of silver in between, glinting in the dim light from the window and setting off sparkles of light that dance on the floor. From one angle, they look metal. From another, they look like bird’s wings.

“Wings,” Cas murmurs, reaching a hand behind him to try and touch them. They’re soft, incredibly so, and sensitive. He can feel each of his fingers pressing into them, and shivers. This is going to make life much harder. “Why?”

“Because I tainted you, Feathers,” Christie says with a leer.

“What?” Dean demands gruffly. He glances between Christie’s smirk and Cas’ confusion angrily, and if Cas didn’t know better, he’d say Dean was worried.

“That spell I did, it went wrong. You know that. Sure, I didn’t say much about it, but surely you’re not so much of a dumbass that you’ve forgotten?” she quips. Dean glowers until she sighs and continues. “The spell was supposed to bind me to Earth. Instead I got bound to Feathers. In doing so, my demonic aura permeated his angelic one, thus tainting the darling little thing.”

“You… permeated his aura?” the woman with Chuck asks.

Christie crows with laughter. “You make it sound so dirty, Sugar! It’s a spell, not hardcore sex!”

The woman takes a step back. Chuck sighs and massages his forehead with one hand, frowning deeply. “Becky, this is Christie. She’s the demon from my last vision.”

“Visions?” Christie asks, leaning forward and cocking her head. Dean finally takes his hand out of his pocket and moves it to Cas’ hand. Cas starts a bit and tries to cover it up with a cough, but he can tell from the sparkle in Becky’s eye that he failed. Dean blushes.

“He’s a prophet,” Dean says, holding a hand out to Chuck. “Christie, this is Chuck the prophet, Becky the superfan, Castiel the angel, and I’m Dean, the human being. Everyone, meet Christie, Hell’s Most Annoying.”

“I prefer to think I’m Hell’s Most Sassy, actually,” Christie quips, tossing her curls. Cas snorts and pretends to cough again. “You alright there, Feathers?” Christie says around a frown. Cas nods, embarrassed.

“Hi,” Becky announces. Christie turns her gaze to the mousy woman, who has yet to move from her place behind Chuck. She grins lazily, and Becky takes a small step back.

“I don’t bite, Sugar,” Christie purrs. Cas shifts his weight from one foot to the other, glancing between the two women uncomfortably. Dean clears his throat, and Christie turns her gaze on him with a heavy sigh. “Fine. No fun. Got it.”

“Um, can we maybe take this inside?” Chuck asks, nervously glancing around behind him. Dean nods and leads them deeper into the drugstore, behind the pharmacy counter and into their makeshift bedroom area. Christie immediately sits in the wooden rocking chair in the corner, running her hands softly over the carved arms. Becky perches nervously on the tall stool left by the owners of the drugstore. Chuck, Cas, and Dean elect to stand.

“What do you need?” Dean asks. It sounds almost like a demand, but not quite.

“I had a vision, about nine months ago. That was the last real vision I’ve had. In it, I saw you and Cas, here, and I was supposed to find you. That’s all I know.” Chuck shrugs, rubbing his temples with shaking hands. Cas wonders how long it’s been since he had alcohol.

“Why?” Cas asks.

“Because something big was going to happen. Not sure what, but the two of you are involved, and so am I, and so was Becky, and Christie, and a few other guys I’ve never met or heard of before,” Chuck murmurs, still rubbing his head.

“What did they look like?” Dean demands, taking a step closer.

Chuck flinches, and Dean backs off, waving for Chuck to continue. “Um, there was a really short guy with blondish-brown hair who was always eating something?” he offers. “He’s been in my visions before, but I never got a name.”

“Sounds like Gabriel, but he’s been dead for years,” Cas murmurs. The others ignore him.

“And a few others, people I’ve never seen. Oh, and Jody Mills.”

“We’re a long way from Sioux Falls, Chuck,” Dean says, and Chuck nods.

“I know. I’m not sure why she was here,” he says, forehead creasing in concentration. Christie snorts and when Cas turns to her, she’s rolling her eyes. She smirks and he’s suddenly reminded of Meg, and wonders where she is, and if she ever made it out alive after Crowley got ahold of her. He doubts it.

“You guys should probably pay attention to Headaches over there. I think he’s about to have one whammy of a prophetic vision,” she drawls, and sure enough, Chuck shouts and collapses. Cas drops to his knees beside him, not even noticing when Dean does the same.

Chuck convulses, groaning through gritted teeth. Cas grips his upper arm, trying to hold him down. Chuck’s eyes roll in his head, rolling up until the whites are showing more than the irises. He pants and his back arches, and Cas has to force him back down. He thinks it’s sad he knows what to do in this type of situation. He can remember sitting with Luke, way back when, rubbing his back and whispering soothing words while Luke told him to fuck off.

Chuck stills quite suddenly, all the life going out of him in an instant. Dean meets Cas’ eyes over the prophet’s silent body, worry flashing between them. It was a violent seizure, that’s for sure, but they’ve both lived through worse. Surely Chuck is alright?

Christie clucks her tongue, standing from the rocking chair. The heels of her boots clack against the tile floor as she stalks to where the three men sit on the floor. She bends down beside Chuck’s head, tapping on his brow with scarlet nails. “Well. I suspect that could have gone better.”

As if roused by her touch, Chuck gasps and sits up, springing into a sitting position like a puppet whose strings have been yanked. He gasps and scrambles to get away from Christie, who frowns at him and cocks her head. Chuck is shaking violently, shivering despite the warmer temperatures.

“Who are you?” he stutters.

Christie’s eyes go wide, and Cas thinks he can see fear in their depths. “What do you mean?” she asks slowly, warily.

Chuck shakes his head wildly, pressing himself back against the wall and pointing at Christie with a shaking finger. “I saw _you.”_

Christie’s featured go carefully blank. “Good for you, Headaches,” she deadpans, voice too level, too flat.

“What the hell are you?” Chuck demands, chest heaving.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Christie snaps. She takes a step forward, but Dean’s there in a flash, demon-killing knife pressed against her throat. She swallows hard, and the knife digs in, drawing a thin line of red across her smooth skin. She growls.

“Don’t get smart with me. I’ll take your head off,” Dean whispers into her ear.

“Go on. I have nothing to lose,” she spits through clenched teeth.

Dean looks taken aback, as if he didn’t expect her to say that. None of them did, Cas thinks. He can tell by the looks of matching horror on all of their faces. Becky has even covered her mouth with one hand.

“Answer his question,” Dean hisses menacingly. Cas shivers.

“Fine, if that’s what you want,” Christie replies. “I’m a demon. A very powerful demon. And I want to help you find the Prince of Hell, so I can go home without having to deal with the anarchy going on down there. Alright?”

Dean shakes his head, and pulls back on his knife, swiping it across her neck effortlessly, as if he’s done this a hundred times. He probably has.

Becky screams.

Christie’s pretty head hits the floor a few seconds before the rest of her.

END CHAPTER TWO

Cas is scrambling, trying to find places for everyone to sleep. After they’d cleared away the body, Dean left. It’s unlikely that he’ll be home anytime soon, but the bed is only big enough for two. Cas decides to let Chuck and Becky have it. They need it more than he does, after all. They’ve been travelling for a few days nonstop, now.

Before going to bed, they sit down to talk. Cas hadn’t realized how cut off from things he and Dean are.

“The last stronghold that I know of, besides basically all of Maine, is in Kansas. I visited there first, thinking you guys would be there, but you weren’t, so I waited until I had another vision, and came here instead. I brought Becky with me because I couldn’t exactly leave her. All the other camps I visited were being attacked strategically. It was a matter of time,” Chuck says, reclining on one of the two leather loveseats Dean managed to drag in a few months ago.

“How is it out there?” he asks quietly.

“Bad,” Chuck murmurs, staring at his hands, folded neatly in his lap. “It’s a wasteland, mostly. Major cities were bombed in the beginning, to try and stop the spread. New York City, Atlanta, Los Angeles, Denver, Cleveland. Those were the first, but eventually there was at least one bombing site per state.”

Cas shudders and tries to readjust his wings so that he’s not leaning on them as much. He’s managed to get over the shock of them being there, but he’s not entirely comfortable with them yet. At least Becky has stopped staring at them in awe. Chuck just ignores them. “And the rest of the towns?”

“Abandoned, overrun, destroyed, looted, or still struggling on,” Becky says. She’s folded herself at the other end of the loveseat Chuck is on, knees against her chin and arms wrapped around them. She’s got a scratchy blue blanket draped over her shoulders. “Most of them are done for.”

“Any word of any of our friends?” Cas has to ask. He can’t not ask.

“Bobby’s gone,” Chuck whispers. They seem to have gotten progressively quieter as time went on, and now his voice is barely audible. “I called Charlie, the hacker. She’s still alive, planning on trying to make her way up here. I tried calling Lisa, Dean’s old girlfriend. Her son is alive, but he hasn’t seen her in a few weeks. Those are the only ones I know for certain.”

“And what about the angels? If they’re gone, how are you still having visions?” Cas asks.

Chuck shrugs. “I wouldn’t be surprised if these ones are coming from hell. They’re not fun,” he says bitterly. “It doesn’t help that I can’t find any whiskey. Or beer. Or wine. Or anything alcoholic in the slightest.”

Cas laughs then, although it’s more of a small huff of air than anything else. Becky smiles, pulling the blanket tighter around herself. Chuck tries for a smile, but it comes out as a slightly pained grimace.

“Do you remember when Sam died?” Becky asks suddenly.

Cas stares at her. Chuck stares at her. If possible, Becky would be staring at herself. She looks horrified. “Oh God, I didn’t mean to say that! I don’t know why I did! I’m sorry!”

“It’s fine,” Cas says. “I remember.”

Chuck looks interested now, though it’s clear he’s trying to appear the opposite. Cas sighs and resigns himself to telling the story.

“He got stomach cancer. I think it was left over from that time Zachariah gave it to him. I think he didn’t put Sam back together right,” Cas says, voice dropping into a mournful whisper. Becky and Chuck lean in to hear better. “He called Dean, all but begging him to come to the hospital. We drove all night.”

“And you were too late,” Chuck finishes.

“No,” Cas corrects. He shifts his weight again, wings uncomfortably stuck to his back. Both people on the other couch look at him with surprise. “He was alive when we got there. He had an attack of something that morning, and was really out of it, so we let him rest. We fell asleep in the hallway. When we woke up, he was fine. And then he had another attack.”

Becky gasps, clamping her hands over her mouth in horror, tears welling. Cas wishes he could still cry, but he can’t. He’s done enough crying over Sam Winchester, in his opinion, and so has Dean. He vowed long ago that he would never shed another tear over his brother’s vessel.

“He went brain-dead, there at the end. That’s when Lucifer got in, because Sam couldn’t say no anymore, but he was technically still alive,” Cas finishes.

Becky frowns. “But you can’t go brain-dead from stomach cancer.”

“I know,” Cas replies. “We think there were demons in the hospital. Dean thinks Lucifer was plotting it for a long time.”

A silent tear is rolling down Chuck’s face.

“Wait,” Cas says, turning to Chuck. “Didn’t you see it before it happened?”

Chuck shakes his head sadly, trying to secretly wipe the tear from his cheek. “I was in a coma. I fell down the stairs in a hotel and hit my head. I actually just woke up about eight months ago, when Lucifer took over. We think it was part of his plan.”

“You were in a coma?” Cas repeats disbelievingly. “How did we not know?”

Chuck shrugs. “Dunno,” he says, and yawns violently. Cas laughs as Chuck rubs his jaw, frowning. Becky giggles happily, hand covering her mouth, and pulls her blanket tighter around her shoulders, snuggling down into the soft leather.

“Time for bed?” Cas asks. Chuck nods. “You guys can share the bed, so that you aren’t crammed onto the loveseats. I’ll sleep on one of these. If Dean comes home, he’ll sleep on the other one.”

Chuck nods gratefully and stands, pressing his hands into his back until the joints pop, glancing meaningfully at Becky until she climbs to her feet, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders and clinging to the ends. She glances about nervously, and follows closely behind Chuck as he stumbles behind the pharmacy counter, trying not to trip over the various things strewn about the aisles. 

Cas lays down on the loveseat, not bothering with a blanket. It’s late October, and as such it’s beginning to get colder, but the drugstore is warm enough, and his wings are good as any blanket anyway. The electricity hasn’t gone off completely yet—it flickers, coming and going—and they still have heaters. There’s even a generator in the toolshed out back, should they need it.

He’s asleep within minutes.

XXXXX

Dean isn’t there when Cas wakes up, but that’s nothing new. Sometimes, he stays away for days on end and comes back, bloody and exhausted, and goes right to the painkiller aisle. Once he was gone for two weeks, during which Cas finally mastered the art of swallowing emotions.

Chuck and Becky are still asleep, so Cas decides to go out and get something for them to eat. It’s usually fairly easy to find food here; this was an upper-class suburban area, full of huge vegetable gardens and fruit trees. In the winter, it’s proving to be harder to find things that aren’t rotten, but he manages. There are pumpkins growing wild in some places, and he’s started an indoor garden in the basement of the drugstore that should help them survive.

His favorite place to find food is Sixth Street. There’s a small apple orchard there, with pumpkins growing among the roots of the trees. Vines and leaves mingle, stretching over one another and carpeting the ground in a green and brown carpet. In the spring, the blossoms are bright pink, and in the summer the apples are deep red, and in the fall, the pumpkins are bright orange. He hasn’t seen a winter here yet, but he hopes it will be as beautiful as the other seasons.

There are flowers, too. Whoever owned the orchard must not have been good at controlling their plants, because daisies and tulips grow in clumps near the trunks in such scattered places that it can’t have been intentional. They’re not in bloom anymore, but when they are, the orchard smells heavenly.

Cas walks quietly among the vines, careful to mind the developing vegetables that are placed at irregular intervals along them. There aren’t any birds singing, but he can imagine them flitting between the bare branches, singing their joyous songs to the sky, heedless of any that walk below them, brightly feathered and free. There was a time when he felt like a bird.

That time is long gone, but he remembers it anyway.

Cas sighs and stares at the trees, bare of their leaves and grey in the watery morning light. He feels like those trees, cold and bare and empty of life. He wonders if Dean knows how he feels. Probably not, although it’s unlikely that Dean would care.

He tears his mind from that subject and starts looking for pumpkins. He knows how to do exactly three things to them to make them edible: fry them, make a pie, or just eat them raw and ignore the unpleasant taste.

It’s a tad late in the season, but that doesn’t stop him from finding two small ones that ought to work for his purposes. The plants in the area seem to grow exceptionally well, better than most plants. A long time ago, before everything became survival and bitterness, Dean used to joke that they were growing so well because an angel lived nearby.

Cas exits the orchard, carrying his pumpkins by their stems, one in each hand. He hums to himself, one of the songs Dean used to play in the car on long drives. He’s not sure which one, but it was one of Dean’s favorites.

The walk back to the drugstore is a long one, taking him clear all the way across town. He likes walking, though, likes the silence and calmness and the repetitive slap of his boots on the sidewalk. It reminds him of simpler times.

He’s about halfway home when he spots them.

There’s a woman running toward him, red hair whipping around her face. She’s clutching the hand of a teenage boy, and both are sprinting as hard as they can, frantically dashing through the previously undisturbed street.

“Hey!” the woman shouts. “Are you human?”

“Yeah?” Cas answers, but it’s more like a question. Of course he’s human. Croats can’t even answer questions, most of the time, so why even ask? She must be new to the whole running, not sleeping, barely eating lifestyle.

She pulls up next to him, panting and clutching at the shoulder of the boy. He bends over, hands on his knees, pulling in desperate gulps of air. “Hi. I’m Charlie. This is Ben. We’ve been running. For a long time,” she says in between gasps.

“Why?” Cas asks.

“We’ve been chased,” she says, “by demons. And Croats.”

“Croats?”

“Infected people. Croatoan virus.”

“Are they after you right now?” Cas demands, grabbing Charlie’s shoulders and peering into her eyes. She shakes her head with a satisfied smile. “Then why were you running?”

“Because we just lost them about a half-mile back,” Ben says. “She wouldn’t let us stop until we found a drugstore.”

Charlie huffs a laugh, shaking her head fondly, glancing at Ben with endearment in her eyes. They must have been travelling together for a while now. “We needed to find Dean and Chuck,” she says.

“Dean and Chuck?” Cas asks. Charlie nods. “I can get you to them. I live with Dean.”

Charlie looks intensely grateful, and leans heavily on Ben’s shoulder, not even mentioning the huge black wings. Chuck must have briefed her, he thinks, otherwise she’d have run away long before now. Cas gestures for them to follow him and starts walking toward home. He tries to avoid thinking about Dean’s reaction when he sees that Ben is with them now. That is, if he ever comes home.

XXXXX

Dean is not pleased. He’s furious, enraged, incensed. He’s only been home for ten minutes, from what Cas can tell, and now he’s threatening to leave again. He’d taken one look at Ben, shaken his head, and walked right back out.

Cas, of course, follows him.

He finds Dean in one of the houses they thought about moving into before deciding against it. (Living in someone else’s abandoned home was too intrusive, Cas said.) Dean is on the top floor, leaning out a window, looking down at the ground thirty feet below.

“Dean?” Cas asks, taking a tentative step into the room. Dean doesn’t respond. Cas comes closer to him, hovering a few feet behind his shoulder, unsure about what to do. Sometimes, he thinks it was easier when Dean didn’t talk or respond to him. At least then Cas’ heart was breaking for a known reason.

“Dean, I’m sorry,” Cas whispers, though he’s not sure why.

Dean laughs cruelly. “Stop,” he orders.

“Stop apologizing?” Cas asks, confused.

“No. Just stop.” Dean whirls around, frenzied green eyes meeting blue. “Stop trying to make me happy. Stop trying to make things better. Stop trying to keep me from drinking myself away. Stop trying to survive. We can’t survive out here, Cas. _The world is fucking over.”_

“Dean,” Cas says. He’s not sure if he’s scolding, or pleading, or if he even said anything at all. He’s too busy reeling, wondering where he went wrong, what he did to Dean to make him this way. It’s his fault, he knows. He was too pushy, too overbearing, too near. He should have given Dean some space. He shouldn’t have tried so hard.

“No, Cas!” Dean shouts. Cas takes a step back, but Dean doesn’t seem to notice. He balls his fists up, eyes blazing with fury. “Just stop trying! It’s not going to get better! Sam is gone and I’m alone!”

“You have me,” Cas murmurs, eyes stinging, wings flattening themselves against his spine.

Dean laughs again, a bitter and cruel sound. “Oh yeah, Cas, so glad I have you,” Dean spits.

Cas takes a step back. He can feel tears threatening, but he tries to swallow them back down. Dean is staring at him, livid, and the worst thing is that this has happened before. But this time Dean is sober.

“I’m sorry,” Cas says, because he has nothing else to say.

“Stop!” Dean screams. “Stop fucking apologizing!”

“I’m—” Cas tries to say, but manages to stop himself before the rest of the sentence can get out. He can tell that Dean knows what he was going to say. Cas swallows hard. This is his doing, he thinks. He did this to Dean. He made him this way.

“Get away from me,” Dean hisses, and turns back to the window.

Cas doesn’t have to be told twice.

XXXXX

Cas doesn’t go home that night.  
Neither does Dean.

XXXXX

Cas wakes up on the ground, in the rain. He’s shivering, with only his wings to shield him from the stinging water droplets that lash at his like so many knives, hurled from the fist of a vengeful god. The thought makes Cas smile bitterly. If only there was a vengeful god.

He picks himself up, groaning. His limbs are stiff and sore, and his feet ache. When he looks around, he doesn’t recognize the scenery. He’s in a forest, and he knows for a fact that there are no forests anywhere near the drugstore. He must have walked a long way last night, in a stupor brought on by shock and anguish, and lost track of time and direction.

It’s pouring down rain, grey clouds pelting him with water from above, making a deafening roar when they strike the dead leaves on the ground. Cas holds his face to the sky and lets the drops hit him, pinging off his eyelids and making black spots dance in the light red.

He wonders if anyone is looking for him.

He doesn’t think so.

XXXXX

He walks for a bit, but he doesn’t know which direction is the right one. It doesn’t really matter, as he’s not even sure if he wants to go home—but since when did he start referring to their drugstore as home? Home isn’t a drugstore. Home is a cheap motel room, and two hunters who bicker constantly, and a classic car that only plays classic rock, three years ago. And before that, home was with his brothers, away from all the messiness of humanity, with a purpose and a reason to go on. Home isn’t a drugstore with a bed behind the pharmacy counter and two leather loveseats in the vitamin aisle and a small vegetable garden in the basement.

Cas sighs and looks up at the thick grey clouds. It’s stopped raining, and the sun is peeking out from behind the blanketing of gloom. The sky reminds him of the duvet on the bed back at the drugstore, the one Dean wraps himself in and never shares, the one the Cas clutches to his chest on the nights Dean is gone. Both are light, watery grey, and both are the cause of unnecessary sorrow.

He coughs, wrapping his arms around himself. He’s cold and shivering and his wings are wet and heavy against his back, hanging limply, tips slapping his thighs when he walks. His breath comes in little puffs of mist, and he can’t feel his nose.

He doubts anyone is looking for him. Chuck would want to, but he wouldn’t get far without Dean’s consent, and Dean wouldn’t come after Cas if you paid him. Charlie would help Chuck, and so would Becky, but they don’t know their way around the town, and neither does Ben.

Cas resigns himself to his fate, to freeze to death in the middle of the woods, alone.

He doesn’t really mind, if he’s honest with himself. This world isn’t a good one. It’s gotten progressively worse, and if Dean doesn’t want him, then why should he live? Dean is all he has, the only one he could ever truly call family, and mean it wholeheartedly.

Cas’ eyes are watering, but he refuses to call it crying. He’s just going to pretend everything is fine, that everything is going to work itself out eventually. Except it’s not, and it’s all his fault. He broke Dean, made him bitter and mean and distant. It’s Cas’ fault things are the way they are.

Cas trips and falls, having caught his foot in a broken log. It sears with agony, but he can’t really feel much. He’s too cold to feel anything but the confusion and pain inside his own head. Dimly he realizes that he should have noticed a while ago that hypothermia is setting in.

It isn’t even that cold, if he’s honest with himself. His breath is misting in the chill air, but the temperature isn’t actually very low. But he’s soaked to the bone, and his body has never been very good at generating heat—most likely because it isn’t _his_ —and now he’s going to die because of it.

Cas sighs and wraps his wings closer around his body, shivering. It’s so cold, and he can’t feel his feet and hands. He wishes Jimmy Novak were still around, but he left around the time Cas lost his Grace. He never thought he’d miss Jimmy.

There’s shouting in the distance, but he can’t make out any words. He can’t hear much of anything, actually. There’s a buzzing in his ears, and his vision is ringed with black. His breathing is labored and slow, dragging in and out of unwilling lungs with a spike of pain for each inhale. He’s fairly sure that hypothermia doesn’t work like that, but his brain is sluggish and he can’t think right.

“Castiel!” someone screams. Whoever it is, they sound like they’re in pain, or maybe angry, or terrified. He’s never been good at hearing emotions in human voices. Cas blinks slowly, trying to clear the spots from his eyes. The voice comes again, and he thinks he can recognize it as Chuck’s. “Cas!”

He wants to respond, but at the same time, he doesn’t. He’s so tired.

“Cas! Castiel!” It’s a woman this time, and he thinks it’s Becky. So they did mount a search party, then. He’s somewhat proud of them for doing it without Dean’s help, though they’re not very good at it. They’re heading the wrong direction.

“Hey, assbutt!” That must be Charlie, but he’s not sure. She’s too far away.

They continue shouting, getting further and further away. Cas shudders, wishing he were dry, or capable of time travel. He would go back in time and kill a Winchester, though he’s not sure which one. He couldn’t kill Sam or Dean. He wouldn’t be able to look Mary in the eyes, let alone stab her, and he doesn’t want to go near John at all. He would probably settle for one he never met.

“Cas!” It’s Dean.

Cas’ mental process goes something like this:  
Dean?  
Dean.  
 _Dean!_

He wants to shout, but at the same time he wants Dean to leave without finding him. All Cas does is hurt Dean, he knows it. He causes stress and pain and anger and frustration and a thousand other negative emotions. If it weren’t for him, maybe the world would still be like it used to be, full of promises and laughter and hard-earned happiness.

“Castiel!” Dean shouts again.

Cas opens his mouth to say something back, to try and get help, but he can’t. No sound will come out. He’s not even sure his mouth opened in the first place. Actually, he can’t feel his entire face, or his arms, or his legs.

Dimly, he realizes that this is a problem.

“Cas!” Dean yells. He’s closer this time, and it gives Cas a small amount of strength. He tries again to shout something in return, and gets as far as opening his mouth. He sighs heavily; it’s about all he can do.

There’s a crunching in the bushes, a few yards from where Cas is hunched in the wet leaves. Cas wants to look up, to see who it is, but he can’t move. The crashing gets louder, as if someone has just broken into a jog, and he hears a sharp intake of breath.

“Cas,” Dean says, and it’s just a small, soft exhale.

Cas’ head turns of its own accord, and he looks up into Dean’s eyes. Cas grins, but it’s not his grin. Nothing he’s doing right now is his. When he moves to stand, shakily and leaning on a tree, it’s not him doing it. When he tilts his head to the side, still staring at Dean, it’s not him. He can’t control his own body.

“Not right now,” Cas says, but it’s not him.

XXXXX

Dean takes a startled step back. This thing in front of him, it isn’t Cas. At least, not anymore.

The thing inside of Cas pouts, an expression the former angel would never make. “Oh calm down, dear. It’s only me,” Cas’ voice says.

“Who are you?” Dean demands.

Cas barks out a sharp laugh. “You cut off my head, Dumbass. I should hope you haven’t forgotten me so quickly.”

Dean feels all the breath leave him in a rush. “No.”

Cas—Christie—laughs, a cackle completely unlike Cas’ rough giggle. He—she?—takes a step closer to Dean, stumbling slightly. Christie frowns down at Cas’ legs, disapproving. “Not to alarm anyone, but I think Feathers here is frozen solid.”

“Get out of him,” Dean growls.

Cas’ face smirks at him. “As soon as I can find another body, I will. For now, I’m stuck inside him, thanks to that binding spell gone wrong.” She sighs heavily, swaying on her feet.

“How long have you been in there?” Dean demands.

Cas’ shoulders move up and down in a shrug. “Oh, since you killed me. There’s some interesting stuff going on in your angel’s head, Dumbass,” she says. Dean’s hand moves to the hilt of the demon-killing knife, resting lightly on it where it rests in his pocket. Christie either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

Dean shouts for Chuck. “I got him!”

He can hear far-off crashing, as if Chuck fell down. Again. For all his foresight, the man falls more often than November does. It’s Charlie who answers. “Coming!”

Dean keeps his eyes trained on Christie, who in turn keeps Cas’ eyes trained on Dean. The two stare each other down while the rest of the humans crash through the undergrowth, making more noise than a large herd of deer. The eyes are the same blue, the exact same shade, but different. They lack the depth, the weight of years, the pain that is ever-present in Cas’ usual gaze. Dean’s not sure how he feels about that.

“Cas?” Chuck asks, coming to a stop beside Dean.

Christie sighs, crossing Cas’ arms over his chest. “Nope, sorry, Headaches.”

Charlie trips over a branch and catches herself on Chuck’s shoulder. She’s panting, and her hair is frizzy. “Hey, you found him!” she says with a grin. “Now we can go home.”

“Once again, nope. Maybe next time, Red,” Christie says, tossing Cas’ head as if trying to get hair out of his eyes.

“Have you got a nickname for everyone?” Becky asks, creeping up behind everyone. Of the entire group, she’s the quietest when walking through crackling, dry leaves. Other than Dean, that is, but he doesn’t count, as he’s had training.

“Sure do, Sugar,” Christie purrs, doing her best to twist Cas’ features into a leer. It doesn’t quite work, but the result is fairly creepy. Dean is reminded of the empty smile on the face of the Cas in 2014. He banishes the thought before it can send him into another panic attack.

“Where are you guys?” Ben shouts. He’s not far off, but judging from the direction his voice is coming from, there’s a curtain of willow trees in the way. He probably can’t see them.

“Here!” Dean calls back, ignoring the flip his stomach does at the sound of Ben’s voice. Ben shouldn’t be here. He should be at home, with Lisa, instead of out in the woods with two humans, a prophet, a fallen angel being possessed by a demon, and Dean.

“Coming!” Ben answers, and there’s a loud crashing of leaves. Dean wants to grab everyone here and shake then—except maybe Becky—for being so loud. If they were on a real hunt, they’d be dead already. They would have been dead four hours ago, when they first set out to find Cas.

Christie tilts Cas’ head to the side, a cruel parody of the gesture Dean is so familiar with. “Who’s the kid?”

“I’m Ben,” Ben says, jogging into view. “Hi.”

“Hey there, Ben,” Christie greets, and for once she sounds like a normal person. There’s no hostility in her voice, no honeyed sarcasm or sugary drawl. “I’m Christie, and I’m inside Cas.”

“What?” Ben asks.

“She’s a demon,” Dean grumbles. “Possessing my friend.”

“Friend,” Christie repeats, and the sugar and honey are back. Cas’ lips purse, disapproval in those blue eyes, so familiar but so empty of everything that makes them Cas’. Dean can’t stand to look into them. It brings up too much crap he doesn’t want to focus on.

“Demon,” Ben deadpans.

“Demon,” Chuck confirms.

“Demon!” Christie exclaims, raising Cas’ hands to the sky and grinning.

The group stares at her as she slowly lowers Cas’ arms. She sticks out Cas’ tongue, and the gesture is so ridiculous that Dean almost wants to smile. Almost.

“Can we go home?” Charlie asks, arms wrapped around her shivering frame. Dean nods and gestures for Christie to lead the way. She glares at him and crosses Cas’ arms stubbornly. Dean sighs angrily, spins on his heel, and leads the way back in the direction of the drugstore.

XXXXX

Christie is having the time of her life.

Of course, it’s a little strange to be inside an angel. And it’s weird that he’s not protesting. She listens intently to his thoughts, but they’re blank. She can’t hear him thinking anything, and it disturbs her. Usually, she doesn’t even care enough to learn names—in fact, she doesn’t know any of these peoples’ names, hence the nicknames—but she’s honestly worrying about this angel.

She decides to dig around a little.

On the surface of his memory is a haze of pain, centered on Dumbass. She avoids their fight, because she doesn’t feel like living it, and goes deeper. Right underneath is a layer of less intense pain, made up mostly of mourning and worry. She heads past it and into the more interesting memory. Deep inside, there is a fierce happiness, a fiery thrill, an intense love. There are two boys and an old man and a long black car. Home.

Christie pulls out of the memory and decides to flit through the others for a minute, for kicks.

XXXXX

Chuck doesn’t really know what to think right now.

On one hand, they’re all together, just like in the vision that led him here. Sure, they’re missing one or two—Jody Mills, a really short guy, a blond man, a red-haired woman—but there’s enough of them to do what he saw. Even if they wouldn’t make it home.

On the other hand, Castiel is possessed by a demon. A fucking terrifying demon, who is most likely going to do something utterly horrible to them all. He’s not sure—the visions have been getting vaguer and vaguer lately—but if he’s right, she’s the reason they wouldn’t make it home.

Chuck keeps his head down and trails after Dean.

XXXXX

Becky is terrified.

When Chuck showed up on her doorstep, gun in hand, ranting about the impending apocalypse, she’d laughed, invited him in, and turned on the news. She’d made coffee and locked the cabinet designated tor alcohol, prepared to deal once again with Chuck’s occasional breaks with insanity.

But then she saw the headline. _Wanted Man Rampages Through Detroit._ And she knew it was Sam, that Lucifer had finally got him, and that the world was over. She’d dropped everything, packed a bag, and let Chuck drive her to Kansas.

Several months later, here she is, following Dean Winchester, sticking close by Chuck, casting slightly scared glances at Charlie, and trying to avoid Ben. She isn’t supposed to know about Ben, but she read Chuck’s notes once, the ones that didn’t get printed. She doesn’t think Dean knows either, but she also doesn’t think he’d appreciate her getting her weirdness near his son.

XXXXX

Charlie sighs heavily, glancing about the rain-soaked forest. At her side, Ben is biting his bottom lip. She tries to offer him a small smile, but he either doesn’t see or doesn’t care. She leaves him to his brooding.

When the world first went to hell, she was alone. She knew exactly what was happening only because she’d met Carver Edlund at a con once, and he’d recognized her from some of his visions, and they’d exchanged phone numbers. They’d kept in touch the entire time, except for one eight month period before Sam died.

When she finally got the call that it was Time For Her To Do Her Thing, she’d followed directions carefully. Find Ben, get to Maine, don’t die. Simple.

And now that she’s done that, she almost wishes she hadn’t. Dean isn’t the same anymore. When all of this happened, when Sam died, when the world just stopped being home, he must have broken. She’s seen enough suicidal corporate types to know exactly what’s wrong with him. He’s dead on the inside.

She doesn’t mention it.

XXXXX

Ben doesn’t want to be here.

He just wants his Mom back.

Actually, he wishes Dean had never met his Mom in the first place.

Then maybe she would still be alive.

XXXXX

Dean doesn’t want to think about anything, but he has to. He’s got a group of people to lead now, and even though he knows that the only way to save Cas is to stay far away from other people, to keep him from turning into a drugged sex-addict, he can’t abandon them. If he does, they’ll die, right?

The truth is, Dean doesn’t know anymore.

In the beginning, right after Sam… right after things happened, he got lost. He quit talking, quit responding, quit living. The only thing that kept him from dying was Cas. And when he started to get better, Cas was right there, and never left him. So Dean started to formulate a plan: Stay away from other survivors so that Cas lives. Simple as that. If they stayed far away from population, he would never get hooked on drugs, or sex, or alcohol. He’d stay Cas.

But then Dean realized he was hurting Cas. He tried to make up for it with little gestures of affection, just meaningless love, but he couldn’t keep it up. If he’s honest with himself, he’s been in love with the angel for years now. If only Cas felt the same.

XXXXX

Christie goes back into Cas’ head with fear at the forefront of her mind.

These people are crazy.

END CHAPTER THREE

Cas can’t move.

Not that he wants to. He’d much rather allow the demon to poke and prod around in his head and control his limbs than walk. He’s not sure if he wants to move ever again. Laying down and dying seems preferable to being forced back into the drugstore, where he’ll end up playing host to the humans while avoiding Dean. He can’t do that.

His feet trudge through the mud, following Dean past trees and bushes alike. Chuck is on his left, and Becky is sticking close beside him. Charlie and Ben are taking up the rear of their little posse. He’s surrounded.

Christie giggles from deep inside his mind. _Come on Feathers, chin up. I mean, I’m a demon and I’m happier than you._

He tells her to shut up, but deep inside he’s almost glad she’s there. She reminds him of Jimmy.

_So, tell me about the others,_ she says lazily, ignoring him.

He sighs, but he doesn’t really see a reason why not. _Dean is a hunter. Charlie hacks computers for a living. Chuck is a prophet and an author. Becky is his number one fan. Ben is Dean’s son, but don’t tell him._

_Hm. Less resistance than expected,_ Christie purrs. He can feel her digging through his memories, but he doesn’t have the strength to stop her. What does it matter anymore? After all, he’ll be dead soon enough, if he doesn’t get warm.

_Don’t be that way!_ Christie orders. _Come on, I live in hell and I’m less depressed._

_Maybe you have less reason,_ he tells her.

He can feel her snort. _My people are fighting over nothing, I’m a fucking demon, and I’m doomed to be in your general vicinity forever. To top it off, my dad is a moron._

_I didn’t think demons had fathers,_ he says.

_Then you’re mistaken,_ she replies with a mental smirk. _Sometimes whole families get sent downstairs, and mine is living it up in the fiery abyss. Daddy’s my least favorite._

XXXXX

They’re back at the drugstore by the time Christie says anything. Cas doesn’t like the way his voice sounds when she uses it, but that doesn’t stop her. “So,” she says, “How am I getting out of the angel?”

No one answers.

She tries again, Cas’ voice coming out more irritated this time. “Hello? How should I go about leaving this vessel? Any thoughts? Headaches?”

Chuck drops the bottle of painkillers he’d been examining, not noticing when they roll all over the floor of the aisle. He glances warily at the door and back to Cas’ face. “Um, we could get you a new vessel? One that isn’t one of our friends,” he adds hastily. Christie snorts, but it doesn’t sound right coming from Cas’ mouth.

“Good luck,” she sings. Cas tells her not to do that. It hurts his vocal chords to sing; has since he was cut off from home. He thinks it might be Heaven’s sick way of punishing him, by taking away the thing he was best at. Back in the Host, he used to be one of the best singers. Now, it just hurts him, body and soul.

“We’re going to find a new person for you to possess, and you’re going to get out of my angel,” Dean grumbles. “Or I’ll kill you again.”

No one mentions that in doing so, he’d kill Cas. Cas honestly doesn’t know if either of them care.

“How?” Charlie asks, bending to collect the little white pills spilled by Chuck. She scoops them into her hand one by one, delicately, and Cas is struck by her calmness. He envies it. “I mean,” Charlie continues, reaching under the shelf to grab at a few pills, “Everybody in this area is dead or Croat. We don’t really have many options, possession-wise.”

Dean sighs heavily. “I’ll put in a call to the local radio stations. Anyone who doesn’t have long to live will answer,” he says. Cas is horrified, but he knows that this is what must be done. If he’s possessed, he can’t help Dean summon Crowley, and they can’t find the Prince, and the angels will never come back. This, Lucifer’s prized hell, will continue for eternity.

“That’s not right,” Ben mutters. Charlie pauses in her gathering, and the entire group seems to stop breathing. If Cas still had control of his body, he would be holding his breath. As it is, Christie goes stock-still, holding hers in his place. One tiny white pill falls from Charlie’s palm, and he can hear it strike the floor, bounding twice before rattling to a stop.

Dean’s face is slowly going red. He takes a deep breath, and everyone braces themselves for shouting. What they get instead is a quiet, broken, “It’s the only way.” And then Dean turns on his heel and walks off, heading in the direction of the door to the attic.

It’s Cas’ instinct to follow. He’s always done it, ever since Sam… ever since it happened, just trailed behind Dean and waited it out, or offered advice, or ducked beneath the blow, or—on more than one occasion—just let Dean hit him, because he deserved it.

_Oh Feathers,_ Christie whispers softly from the front of his mind, _you really are lost._

_Please, follow him,_ Cas pleads in response.

Christie makes a disapproving noise but does what he asked, walking quietly out of the painkiller aisle and following Dean into the attic. She has a bit of trouble reaching the chord to pull down the stairs, but she manages by flapping Cas’ wings to get extra height when she jumps. She laughs and says something about basketball, but Cas isn’t listening. He’s too busy trying to think of how to calm Dean down.

Christie lets him take over halfway up the stairs. She’s still there, of course, piloting his limbs—otherwise he’d collapse thanks to the hypothermia he’s still suffering from. She allows him control of his face and wings, and even though he’s not sure why she gave him back his wings, he’s grateful. They’re like a security blanket at this point.

Dean is leaning against the window, watching the rain. Cas’ mind flashes back to last night. He shudders.

“Dean?” he murmurs. “It’s me. Cas.”

Dean doesn’t turn to look at him. “Sure it is. Do me a favor, demon, and stay the fuck away from me.”

Cas bites his lower lip. “It really is me. She let me have control back so I could talk to you,” he says quietly.

Dean still doesn’t turn, but he barks out a harsh laugh. “Alright then. Good to have you back, Cas.”

“Good to be back,” Cas replies, with a little huff of air at the end that could, under certain circumstances, be construed as a laugh. He takes a hesitant step toward Dean.

“I’m sorry,” Dean breathes, so quietly that if Cas didn’t have above average hearing, he’d have missed it. As it is, he does, and stops breathing. He knows that Dean knows he heard him, because Dean finally looks at him, and there’s such pain in those green eyes that Cas can feel his heart break a little more.

He wishes he could stop hurting Dean.

“Cas, I’m so sorry,” Dean blurts, and Cas wants to stop him, but before he can Dean is off again. “I’m a dick, and I’ve been awful to you for a long time, even though all you did was try to help me, and I hate myself for it. I don’t even know why you’re still here.”

Cas chooses not to take that as a dismissal, even though it sounds very much like one. “Because we’re family,” he says simply, knowing full well that Dean is going to explode at the use of the phrase. He’s not sure why he said anything. It just happened.

Dean sucks in a surprised, slightly horrified, breath. “No, Cas, don’t say that. We can’t be family. If we are… I’ll just lose you,” he whispers.

Under usual conditions, there is always a note of desperation in Dean’s voice, but today there’s a whole symphony. He’s broken, just standing there at the window, staring at Cas with wide eyes that sparkle with tears he’ll never shed.

“You won’t,” Cas insists. “Never.”

“I lose everything, Cas,” Dean whispers, one lone tear streaking its way down his face. “My mom, my dad, Bobby, Sam. Everybody leaves.”

“I’m still here,” Cas murmurs, coming closer. Dean flinches back, pressing himself against the window. Cas stops, one hand outstretched, thankful that Christie is being silent and obeying his commands to move, but at the same time hurting in his very core.

“Not for long. I’ve seen this, Cas, I’ve fucking been here before!” he shouts.

“No, you told me about the camp,” Cas breathes, suddenly unable to get his voice above a whisper.

“Not here as in the store! Here as in the same exact post-apocalyptic future!” Dean yells. He slams his fist into the wall, and Cas can hear at least one bone breaking. Dean doesn’t react, just pulls his fist away from the hole in the drywall and studies his bloodied knuckles indifferently.

“Dean,” Cas pleads. “Stop.”

Dean stares at him with wild eyes. “I wish I could,” he says, voice back to a more normal level, but full of so much unspoken agony that it makes the broken pieces of Cas’ heart quiver. “I want to stop so bad, Cas. But I can’t. If I do, the entire world is fucked.”

“The world is fucked already,” Cas murmurs gently. “I’m not sure if we can save it by ourselves.”

“We have to try!” Dean insists, back to shouting. Cas winces at the pure conviction in his voice. He’s all too familiar with this level of passion, so intense that it eats people alive and leaves them empty husks, completely dedicated to the cause. “If we don’t, no one will!”

“Dean!” Cas shouts, suddenly unable to take it anymore. “You can’t do this! You can’t just lose all of what makes you you like this!”

“What?” Dean asks loudly, voice lowered slightly but still not back to normal yet.

Cas is still shouting. “The Dean I met at first was kind, and loyal, and _human!_ You—aren’t! You’re just an empty shell of the man I fell for!” Cas doesn’t know what Dean thinks of that last sentence, but he’s pretty sure he’s said too much. “Please, Dean, come back to me,” he whispers brokenly, allowing some of his pain to show through (not all, or course).

Dean doesn’t hear him, he knows.

He tells Christie he want to go, and turns and leaves.

XXXXX

Cas wakes up in the dead of the night, alone in the bed behind the pharmacy counter, the mattress cold next to him. It’s clear that Dean either hasn’t come down from the attic or just skipped going to bed altogether. A glance at the little wristwatch they use as a clock tells him that it’s three hours before sunrise.

He prods around in his head, asking Christie if she’s awake. She’s left control of his head and wings to him since the fight with Dean, but she’s still controlling the rest of his body.

_I’m up. You’re going to go looking for him, aren’t you?_ she grumbles unhappily. _Fine. Let me get out of bed._

Cas thanks her and coughs, his legs stretching and standing shakily. His bare feet are cold against the tile, and they pad straight over to the place by the door where he and Dean place their boots. Dean’s are missing. Christie slips Cas’ feet into his without lacing them, shuffles his coat on, and heads to the front door.

He glances carefully at the loveseats when he stalks past, checking to make sure all the humans are still asleep. (He doesn’t want to think about the fact that he ought to stop referring to them as the humans and start referring to them as the other humans.) Chuck is snoring on one couch, one leg flung over the back and one on the floor, drugged out of his mind in preparation for the vision he could feel coming on earlier. Becky and Charlie are sharing the other one, as it’s one of those couches that has recliners in it so that they can both recline in their own chair, and they’re sharing a blanket too. Ben is sleeping on an air mattress on the floor, and Cas is left wondering why it was so hard for him to find places for everyone to sleep yesterday. Christie teases his and tells him that it was because he was too busy freaking out over the sexy new demon in town. He almost laughs.

The door makes a lot of noise when Christie forces it open, dragging on dry leaves and dripping water onto the pavement. The air is hung with mist, hauntingly beautiful in the light from the moon. Cas stares upward, hoping he can see the stars. He can’t.

Christie drags his feet through puddles, and he can feel her delight when the water splashes up around his ankles. She stomps in one giant puddle, sending droplets up and into his face. He can feel her laughing, and can’t help but grin.

The night is so clear, so crisp, so absolutely haunting, that he feels energized. He loves it here, out in the darkness, illuminated by only the half moon, surrounded by wisps of fog and the low keening of late autumn bugs. He almost doesn’t mind the way the water feels on his wings, clumping feathers together and getting down between them, soaking him to the bone and making him shiver. He’s going to have to think of a way to get them back into the other plane.

Christie pilots his feet around the block, dancing through puddles and giggling like a child. He lets her do it; she needs to have some time to have fun, after all, demon or not. And she makes him happy, happy in a way that only being with Dean can usually make him feel.

She stops when they see a figure out in the distance, about a block away. All at once, all playfulness is gone, replaced with defensiveness and wariness. She ducks behind a building, peeking out around the corner, limbs tucked close to Cas’ body. Cas tells her to loosen up, or she’ll have no chance in a fight, but she doesn’t listen. She keeps him tensed.

It’s not Dean, he can tell that from his position behind the house. The silhouette is distinctly female, and besides, there’s no screaming. Dean must be on the other side of town.

_I think it’s safe_ , Cas tells Christie.

_If you’re sure,_ she replies, and takes a step forward onto the sidewalk.

His feet crunch on dead leaves, and he hopes that the woman in the distance can’t hear him. She’s unlikely to be hostile, but one can never be too careful. He doesn’t want to spook her, either.

Christie relinquishes all control of his body, hiding in the back of his mind, causing him to stumble. He catches himself against a tree, letting out a surprised breath. Christie murmurs an apology from inside his head.

The woman turns, dark hair fanning out behind her head. Cas holds up a hand, hoping he doesn’t look too threatening. Although, it’s a little hard to be intimidating when he’s dressed in one of Dean’s oversized band shirts and sweatpants. “Hello!” he shouts.

“Hey!” she yells back, and starts jogging toward him. “I’m looking for a man named Chuck! You wouldn’t happen to know him?”

“I do,” he says as she stops in front of him. She’s thin and muscled, with short black hair and a gun strapped to her hip in a leather holster. She carries herself with confidence and not a hint of wariness, as if she already knows she could take Cas in a fight and as such has no need to fear him.

“Hi, I’m Jody. And you are?”

“Cas,” he says. He doesn’t bother to add the last two syllables. He’s been just Cas since about the time Lucifer rose, when he started spending all his time around Dean because Heaven and Hell were both after him, and he just dropped the last part. Even in his own mind, he’s just Cas.

“Can you take me to Chuck?” she asks, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. It looks like it used to be cropped, but grew out, probably around the time that business started closing and the first city was bombed to try stop the spread of the Croatoan virus.

“Absolutely,” he says, motioning for her to follow him. They walk a few paces in silence, and he tilts his head back to the sky to enjoy the night. It’s cool and crisp, the perfect October night. He stuffs his hands into his pockets, shifting his wings to get them more comfortable.

“So, who are you to Dean?” Jody asks.

Cas takes a second to answer. What is he? “His friend,” he says slowly. Jody makes a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat, and Christie echoes it sadly. “We’re almost family, I suppose, but he’s changed since Sam…”

“Yeah,” Jody says, stopping him before he says the words he never wants to have to say. “Did you know Bobby Singer?”

“Yes,” Cas says, a thin smile wearing around the corners of his lips. “He was the only father figure I ever knew, no matter how short of a time we spent together,” he says, voice thick with nostalgia. Jody smiles sadly and wraps her arms around her body. Cas notices for the first time that she isn’t wearing a coat.

“I arrested that man so many times,” Jody murmurs, and it’s supposed to be jokingly but it isn’t. Cas wonders how long it’s been since something happened to Bobby. Chuck never did specify on how he went.

“I’m sorry,” Cas whispers. Jody nods and shivers. He shifts his wings awkwardly, wanting nothing more than to offer her his jacket. “Um, do you want my jacket?”

Jody shakes her head a shivers. Cas sighs and unzips his zipper, shrugging his arms out of the sleeves and trying to keep his wings tucked close to his back. He holds it out to Jody without a word. She accepts it with an eye roll and wraps it around her shoulders, not bothering to put it on properly.

She turns to thank him and stops. Her jaw works, but no words come out. Cas self-consciously shifts his weight from foot to foot. Jody finally gets enough of herself together to choke out, “Angel.”

Cas nods, not bothering to correct her. “Yeah.”

“Cool,” she says simply, and continues walking.

In the back of Cas’ mind, Christie starts drooling.

XXXXX

Dean still isn’t at the drugstore when Cas walks Jody through the door. Becky, Charlie, and Ben are still asleep, but Chuck is leaning against the wall, leafing through a pamphlet on painkillers. He barely glances up when Cas walks past him, but drops the plastic booklet when Jody follows him.

“You’re here!” Chuck exclaims in a stage whisper.

“Hi,” Jody says, huddling deeper into Cas’ jacket. “Jody Mills.”

“Chuck Shurley!” Chuck says, holding out a hand. She shakes it once, and tries to smile, but fails. Chuck makes a concerned noise in the back of his throat. “You’ve been awake for three days. You need to sleep,” he announces.

Jody looks mildly shocked. “How did you..?”

“Prophet,” Chuck says, with one finger pointing to his chest. “I know things.”

Jody nods and glances at Cas, eyes clearly asking if Chuck is crazy. He nods once, not sure whether he’s confirming insanity or prophecy. Honestly, he’s pretty sure both are true. Either way, Jody accepts it, and her smile brightens slightly.

“I’ve got a bed you can sleep in tonight, if you want,” Cas offers. Jody nods, and he shows her to the makeshift bedroom behind the pharmacy counter. The bed is still messy, covers thrown everywhere, blanket half on the floor, pillows missing. He reaches under the bed, fishing for one of them, and comes up empty. Chuck must have taken them for Becky or Charlie or Ben.

“Sorry, I can’t find any pillows,” he says awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.

Jody offers him a humoring smile. “I’m a cop, darling. I think I can handle being pillowless for one night,” she says, smile changing into a smirk, settling down on the edge of the bed. Cas nods once and leaves her to her business, heading off to find Chuck.

Chuck is still leaning against the wall by the door, staring out into the night. Cas leans beside him, watching mist rise in the light from the half moon. It’s just light enough out that he can see the outline of trees a few blocks away. He shudders, caught between admiring the haunting beauty of the night and being utterly terrified of the darkness. He’s never liked the dark.

“Hey, Chuck,” Cas breathes.

Chuck nods at him, but doesn’t say anything. Cas doesn’t really mind the silence. In a way, it’s a welcome change from the rest of his life. Silence is a rare thing here in the drugstore, and when it does happen it’s laden with so much tension that it riles everything nearby into a state of agitation. Cas is completely content to let Chuck avoid speaking for as long as he wants.

Sadly, that isn’t long. “I had a vision, earlier,” Chuck murmurs.

“I know,” Cas replies softly. “You collapsed.”

“I saw the…” Chuck trails off, leaving the sentence hanging as he runs a hand through his hair, messing it up. His hands are still shaking, but not as bad as before. He looks healthier, overall, and Cas thinks he might be recovering from the withdrawal a little. “The worst things,” Chuck finishes, voice breaking.

Cas tries not to laugh bitterly. “It can’t be worse than what’s already happening,” he says.

Chuck sound dangerously close to sobbing when he speaks. “It was.”

“How bad?” Cas breathes, even though he really doesn’t want to know. His wings fold themselves against his back, an unconscious defense mechanism against the terror coursing through his veins.

“Bad,” is the only response.

Cas nods once, puts it out of his mind, and wanders off into the aisle that holds all of the painkillers. He selects the one he knows Dean likes to use when he can’t sleep and unscrews the cap. The pills are round and light pink, and they taste like regret when he pops them into his mouth, one at a time, four times.

He sleeps easily that night, for the first time in eight months.

XXXXX

Cas is slow to wake the next morning, groggy and disoriented. He can hear sounds coming from the center of the drugstore, the too-bright sound of laughter and the chatter of several different voices. Sunlight is barely streaking in through the windows, and his head is fuzzy. His cheek hurts a bit when he pulls it off of the tile flooring, looking around and wondering why he fell asleep in the aisle.

Cas gets painstakingly to his feet, trying not to groan. Every inch of his body aches. He blinks and stretches his arms up over his head, trying to work the knots out of his shoulders. He can feel Christie in the back of his mind, but she’s still asleep. He decides to leave her that way and goes to find the others.

The voices stop when he pads into the main hub of the store, right in the intersection of the vitamin aisle and the makeup section. Everyone is gathered in a circle around the radio. Chuck and Becky are huddled at the end of one loveseat, and Dean is perched awkwardly at the other. Charlie and Ben are sharing the other couch. Cas sits on the floor between them, folding all of his limbs up to make himself as small as possible.

“We were just about to call the station up in Buster,” Dean says without prompting. He doesn’t sound like the Dean Cas has come to know and fear. He sounds more like himself, from before he and Sam split, with a measure of softness and innocence in his tone. Cas nods and runs his tongue over the roof of his mouth. He really wishes he had something to wash it out with.

“Chuck, hand me the phone,” Dean orders, some of his gruffness returning. Chuck obeys without question, reaching out and plucking the phone off the wooden table next to the couch. Dean takes it and holds it to his mouth, finger absently twirling the chord. The only phones that still work are the ones attached to walls now, and Dean’s taken to playing with the chord any time he has to use it.

The phone’s volume is out of whack, and so everyone can hear it ringing. It rings three times before a man answers. “Buster Radio, how can I assist you in your post-apocalyptic survival?”

“Hey, I need to put out an ad on your radio, if I can,” Dean says formally. He sounds more like he’s addressing a boss instead of a stranger.

“Yup, anything for the masses,” the man agrees. Cas thinks it’s Jay, but he’s not certain. All voices sound the same over the crackly, static-ridden phone line they have down at Buster Radio. His assumptions are confirmed when the man says, “I’m Jay. How can I help?”

“This is gonna sound nuts,” Dean says with a self-depreciating huff of laughter. There’s a small smile wearing around the corners of his mouth, just barely a hint of possible happiness. Cas figures it’s because Dean is finally talking to someone other than the broken, clingy angel he’s forced to live with.

“There are undead demon people outside my door and beating on my windows every night,” Jay deadpans.

Dean gives an honest-to-god grin. “Don’t I know it,” he says, shaking his head, eyes on the floor. He sobers up before speaking again, and launches right into his speech without hesitation. “Listen. My name is Frank, and I need to place an ad on your show.”

There’s a beat of nothing but static. “Okay,” Jay says hesitantly.

“I’m living in an abandoned town called Hope,” Dean explains. “In the drugstore on Anne Street.”

“Cool,” Jay says, impatient.

Dean sighs heavily. “I need to find someone, preferably someone dying, who doesn’t mind being part of a ritual. I say preferably dying because this could get dangerous, and I don’t want to kill someone with a life ahead of them.”

Jay doesn’t make a sound.

“I know,” Dean assures him, “It sounds completely nuts. But me and my group of buddies think we can maybe help the world out a little. If our plan goes right, we might be able to get rid of some of the Croats. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind that.”

Cas doesn’t bother giving him a dirty look. It wasn’t like he thought Dean would tell the truth.

“Sure, man, if that’s what you need,” Jay says, and Cas can picture the look in his eyes. It would say something along the lines of _you are all nuts._

“Thanks,” Dean says, and hangs up.

There is silence again, silence laden with words that need spoken and most likely will never see the light of day. Cas sighs and leans his head back against the leather arm of the loveseat, accidentally brushing Charlie’s hand with his hair. She doesn’t seem to mind, so he doesn’t move.

No one speaks for several minutes, so Dean turns on the radio. He reclines in the loveseat, sighing as the familiar strains of a Metallica song wash over the room.

There’s a crackle when the song finishes, and Jay’s voice comes on the line. “Morning, folks. This is Jay, over at Buster Radio Station, with my new friend Rodney. Here are your morning announcements. Word of warning, you might want to sit down and maybe get drunk first.” It’s the same every morning.

Rodney clears his throat. “We’ve got an open position over here at the station, and if anyone wants to fill in, you’re welcome to it. All you have to do is take calls, and talk on the radio when one of us is sick,” he reads off.

“And they’re still offering space on a Kill The Devil Hunt over at Gaston. Bring your own gear, weapons, and booze. Sanity optional,” Jay says, laughing at the end of the sentence. There’s the sound of fabric rustling, a thump, and someone makes a discontented noise. Rodney must have hit him.

“And in Hope, we have a peculiar ad for you. There’s apparently a group of freedom-fighters who think they might be able to find a cure for the Croatoan plague!” Rodney crows, clapping. “Jay talked to their leader this morning this morning, didn’t you?”

Cas nearly laughs at Jay’s tone of voice. It’s slightly awed and a little bit reverent. “I did. Frank, their leader, says he needs someone to take part in their ritual. I don’t know what this ritual is, but I’ve seen some pretty freaky shit lately, so it’s probably legit. They would prefer someone dying, because the spell is dangerous, and they don’t want to accidentally take someone’s life away from them.”

Becky makes a sad noise in the back of her throat. Chuck pats her arm and Ben shushes her gently. It’s clear she isn’t very used to the subterfuge and lying to get what you want. On the radio, Rodney interrupts Jay.

“We’ve got news of a group heading in that direction later today, so if you’re interested in getting possibly killed in a ritual to better the greater population, get to Buster by sundown and they’ll take you. Just call in to let us know, and head on down to Titanic Street. Look for a man named Lo—he’s leading this little escapade—and his two siblings.”

“And that’s all the announcements for this morning, my friends,” Jay finishes. There’s a beat of nothing but crackly silence and then a Poison song starts playing.

Dean clears his throat and reaches to turn the radio off. Before he can, however, the song stops. Jay’s voice comes back on the line. “Attention everyone, we have a volunteer for the trip to Hope. No one else needs to call. We would like to give the biggest thank you in the world to Miss Mary Starling.”

Dean lets out an excited whoop, and rushes out of the room.

END CHAPTER FOUR

The rest of the group stays near the radio, talking amicably amongst themselves for what seems like forever. Charlie and Becky discover a mutual love for Carver Edlund’s books, while Chuck blushes and protests some of the more high-pitched comments on his writing. Ben talks to Jody about the police force. Cas and Christie watch them all, soaking in the pure humanity of it, quietly reveling in the life and energy given off by their surroundings.

Cas wonders why Dean left, but he desperately doesn’t want to dwell on it. It’s been a long time since he could easily understand Dean’s motives and reactions, and he’s long since given up the attempt.

“No way!” Charlie suddenly shrieks, causing the room to fall silent. She looks around, embarrassed, and shrugs apologetically.

“Yes way!” Becky says, just as shrill. The two resume their high-pitched conversation without a hitch, gushing over Supernatural while Chuck winces every time they point out a plot hole. Cas wants to laugh. There’s no reason for him to be embarrassed about plot holes, since he was just writing down what actually happened. Any lucky breaks or too-obvious tactics weren’t his fault.

“He is not!” Charlie exclaims. By this time, everyone has stopped their conversations and is listening in. “He can’t be! She said he wasn’t!”

“She lied!” Becky confirms, satisfied smile on her face. Charlie flails her arms and makes a high-pitched keening sound. “I read Chuck’s notes.”

Chuck makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat. His eyes are huge when he turns to Ben and says, frantically, “Go get me the headache pills.”

Ben goes without a protest, running into the painkiller aisle as quickly as he possibly can. As soon as he’s gone, Chuck whacks Becky on the shoulder. She sputters a protest, but he doesn’t take any notice.

“You need to keep that quiet,” he mutters. “They could use him against Dean if they knew.”

Cas wonders if everyone else is confused as he is. Christie confirms that they are by separating her consciousness and flitting through each of their minds, which gives Cas a headache. “What?” Christie asks, using Cas’ mouth.

Chuck sighs heavily. “Ben. He’s Dean’s son.”

Silence rules the room, choking all thought from Cas’ mind. Of course he suspected it, but he never would have predicted that it would be confirmed so blatantly. This would kill Dean.

“No fucking way!” Christie crows. Cas struggles to get his body back under his control, but she won’t let him. “How fucking awesome is that?”

Chuck desperately shushes them, and they obediently fall silent. “Tell no one,” he whispers, with enough severity that no one would ever think to disobey. “If Heaven or Hell found out, they’d kill Ben to get at Dean.”

Cas nods and stands, stretching his back. Christie grumbles at him to stop moving, to which he responds by flapping his wings. She curses, but it’s good-natured.

He stumbles over to the aisle he woke up in, feet dragging in exhaustion. Sleeping through the night highlighted just how sleep-deprived he is. He pops the lid off a bottle of sleep-aids, shaking three onto his palm. He doesn’t taste them this time, and he even makes it to the bed before he’s forced into unconsciousness.

XXXXX

Cas is woken by screaming. He leaps out of bed without a second thought, stumbling and careening into the wall. He curses and grabs the shotgun Dean keeps by the bed, rushing to get to the front entrance. Horrible thoughts flit through his mind—demons, angels, Croats, humans, Dean—and Christie isn’t helping. She’s picturing all of the things that could be happening, nearly purring with pleasure.

Cas rounds the corner and stops in his tracks, brain rejecting the scene before him. The humans are standing grouped around the door, in differing stages of shock and anger. Becky and Charlie are grabbing each other’s arms. Ben is staring openly at one of the newcomers, and Jody is shaking hands with another. Chuck has his head in his hands, leaning dejectedly against the wall. Dean is nowhere to be found.

The others—who must be the convoy from Buster—are grinning openly. A tall blond man in a black V-neck sweater is shaking Jody’s hand. A redheaded woman is casually chatting with Charlie. A short man with golden eyes is holding the elbow of an unfamiliar human woman.

None of them should be here, except maybe the human.

“No,” Cas says. “This is impossible.”

Every eye turns to him. Smiles break out across the faces of the newcomers, wide and happy and achingly familiar. Cas can feel tears welling in his eyes, and Christie complains about him being too sappy. He ignores her.

“Castiel!” Gabriel shouts, and runs at him. Balthazar and Anna follow, and Cas is being hugged like he’s never been before. He’s crying, he knows, but he’s not sad. No, he’s _happy,_ so much happier than he’s been in months.

“This is impossible. How are you here?” Cas demands, but his heart isn’t in it. Gabriel is holding him hard enough to crack ribs, and Balthazar has his arms looped around Cas’ waist. Anna has her head rested on Cas’ shoulder, laughing openly. 

“We don’t know,” Anna says. “We woke up in Buster last week. We’ve been trying to find you since.”

Cas truly laughs for the first time in a long time. This is the most wonderful thing that’s happened to him. Maybe, he thinks, things could get better. Now that he has someone else to love.

_Who the fuck are these?_ Christie demands, sounding rather disgusted with the outright displays of happiness and love.

_My brothers and sister,_ Cas tells her. She hums at him and retreats.

“How have you been, baby bro?” Gabriel asks, taking a step back. The other angels stop touching him, too, surveying him with careful eyes. Cas squirms. He always hated being looked at.

“Alright, I suppose,” Cas says dismissively.

Balthazar seems to buy it, but Anna and Gabriel don’t look convinced. They don’t say anything more on the subject, thankfully, instead choosing to all start talking at once. Cas is bombarded with questions, exclamations, and general chaos.

“How long has it been like this?” Anna demands.

“Eight months,” Cas admits.

“What have you been doing?” Balthazar asks.

“Living here with Dean, trying to keep us both alive.”

“And how’s he doing?” Gabriel presses, even though Cas is giving off enough uncomfortable vibes to kill small animals. Cas shakes his head slightly, and the angels go quiet. “Sorry,” Gabe says softly, and Cas nods in acceptance.

“He hasn’t been the same since Sam,” Cas murmurs. “Neither of us have.”

The three make little sympathetic noises at him, but he doesn’t take much notice. He’s long since stopped being washed away in grief at the mention of the younger Winchester. Now it’s more like a gentle pull in his chest, a slight ache that emanates from deep within. To put it simply, he’s gone numb.

“So you’ve been living here in Hope for eight months, in an abandoned drugstore, with only one other person the entire time? Awesome,” Gabriel says, breaking the silence with his typical bravado. Anna snickers.

“And now we’re going to kill Lucifer,” she says decidedly. “We’ve just go to find and return the Prince of Hell, right? We can do that.”

Balthazar nods enthusiastically. “I even know a summoning that will do the trick.”

Cas grins, wide and open. He’s humming with excitement, positively filled to the brim with joy. His brothers are alive. His sister is right here in front of him. He’s got a group of humans who will fight with him until the bitter end, and keep going afterwards if they have to. This is the closest he’s been to being back in the Garrison since he saved Dean from Hell.

Anna clears her throat. “I think we need to have a meeting, to hash out all the details.”

Cas nods. “I’ll find Dean.”

XXXXX

Dean is on the back porch, sitting in the moonlight and looking out at the mist-shrouded landscape. He hasn’t seen Cas coming, and Cas uses the opportunity to study his face. Dean’s lost weight in these last few months, along with most of the innocence that used to radiate from his face. His jawline has hardened, and those previously expressive eyes have glazed over and shut down, betraying none of what’s going on behind them. He’s become a stranger, only vaguely familiar, but Cas just can’t stop caring about him, his Dean or not.

“Dean?” Cas asks hesitantly.

Dean doesn’t turn around, but waves a hand for Cas to come closer. Cas creeps toward him bare feet making little sound on the concrete. He comes to a stop next to Dean and gazes out at the dawn landscape, breathing in the humid air and basking in the starlight. Christie tells him to stop being so deep, that it’s hurting her head.

“The convoy from Buster is here,” Cas says.

“I know. I saw them coming in.” Dean’s voice is far too level, far too smooth.

Cas doesn’t want to speak again, but he does. He hopes desperately that none of his fear is evident in his tone. “Did you see who was there?”

Dean laughs bitterly. “The God Squad, freshly raised from wherever it is you go when you die.”

“Isn’t that a good thing? We can always use more on our side,” Cas hedges. Dean doesn’t respond, so he keeps going, timid and quiet, shivering slightly in the cold morning. “And they’re angels, so we’ll have some extra power.”

Dean sighs heavily. “They’re supposed to be dead, Cas.”

“Gabriel is usually supposed to be dead,” Cas points out. “And Balthazar faked his own death. They’ve been supposed to be dead before.” He shakes his wings out to try and warm them up. It’s rather cold outside. _Duh, it’s winter,_ Christie deadpans. Cas ignores her.

“I still don’t have to be happy about it,” Dean snaps. Cas doesn’t say anything, which Dean seems to take as indication to keep talking. “I mean, they were raised from the dead. If someone is powerful enough to bring them back, who not Sam? Why not save the whole goddamned world?”

“Maybe they couldn’t,” Cas suggests softly.

Dean laughs cruelly. “Sure! They could bring three angels back to life, but they couldn’t give me a fucking break. Of _course,”_ he rages. Cas takes a step back, biting his bottom lip. He can remember a time when he was like this, a long time ago, back before Sam’s death. He was angry at the world, at his father, at anyone and everything. And then he met Dean.

Now, it seems the roles are reversed, but with no end in sight.

Christie winces sympathetically.

“Give them a chance,” Cas says.

Dean whirls on him, eyes alight and hands fisted. He’s breathing heavily, whole body rigid, the picture of anger. Can braces himself for the blow he knows is about to come—he’s been hit before, he knows the signs—but none comes. Instead, Dean slumps, broken whimper escaping his lips.

“Why am I so mad all the time?” Dean whispers. “I wasn’t like this before.”

“It’s the stress,” Cas offers, ever helpful, even in the face of another full-on mental breakdown.

“I’m becoming the me Zachariah showed me,” Dean says with a humorless laugh. He hangs his head, pulling at his hair. His body shakes in a silent sob. “This is wrong.”

“I know,” Cas murmurs, taking a step closer. This is familiar territory for him; he’s comforted Dean before. These last few months, it’s been one of the three things he does to Dean, alongside anger and hurt. “I know.”

Dean doesn’t respond, not even when Cas puts a hand on his shoulder. Cas can feel tears welling in his eyes. It hurts to see such a great man, such a brave and strong man, in so much unfathomable pain. All he wants is to make Dean stop hurting.

“I’m sorry,” Cas whispers.

Dean’s head snaps up, horror prominent in his expression. “Why?”

Cas can feel himself gaping. How can Dean not know? “All I do is hurt you. It’s my fault you’re so… broken.”

Dean gasps in a surprised breath. His eyes go round. “No! It’s not your fault, Cas!”

“But it is,” Cas insists. “If it weren’t for me, you’d be happier. I’m useless and I only make you angry.”

Instead of answering, Dean surges forward. Cas flinches, expecting to be hit, but that’s not what he gets at all. Dean’s lips are pressing against his, and Dean is right in his personal space, and they’re kissing. Cas lets out a surprised breath, and Dean kisses him more fiercely.

Christie crows in triumph.

Dean is not a gentle kisser, and he never has been when Cas has known him. He presses his lips insistently against Cas’, exerting just a bit more than the perfect amount of pressure, not moving. Cas stands completely still, as he has every time Dean’s done this. He doesn’t want to startle Dean, or do anything wrong. These moments are precious.

Dean’s arms come up to wrap around Cas waist, crushing them together. Still Cas doesn’t move. Dean growls at him, obviously an order to do something, and Cas laughs into his mouth. Dean takes it as an opportunity to stick his tongue in Cas’ mouth.

Well. This hasn’t happened before.

_Kiss him back, Feathers!_ Christie screams at him, but he doesn’t do anything. He’s only vaguely aware that she’s even there. To tell the truth, he’s trying to pretend she isn’t. It’s a bit creepy to be kissing someone you love while another being is living in your head.

Cas stops breathing. He really doesn’t know what to do with this. Dean notices his reaction and pulls back, confusion etched around his eyes. “What the hell, Cas? You okay?”

“Never done that before,” Cas says.

Dean drops his arms and takes a step back, not meeting Cas’ eyes. “Yeah, I didn’t think so. Come on, let’s go talk to the new guys,” Dean mutters. Cas follows him as he walks back into the drugstore, unable to resist the urge to hold his hand to his lips. They feel different, but he’s not sure how.

XXXXX

There isn’t anywhere big enough to hold a meeting with the entire population, so they end up sitting on the loveseats. Cas is sandwiched between Gabriel and Balthazar on one, and Anna is looking rather squished between Becky and Charlie on the other. Ben and the new girl are sitting on folding chairs, and Dean is sitting on one of the stools from behind the checkout counter. Jody is sitting on the floor, happily cleaning her gun and chatting with Chuck.

“Welcome to the first meeting of Team Kill Satan!” Gabriel calls the “meeting” to order. “Introductions are important. Everybody say your name, and your job before this shit went down, and a random fact about yourself. It’ll be like an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, right Chuck?”

Chuck blushes and looks like he wishes he could sink into the tiles. “Maybe. Never been to one.”

Gabriel frowns at him, but carries on. “So, I’ll start. I’m Gabriel, I was an archangel-trickster-god-thing, and I enjoy tall men with no inhibitions,” he says, raising his eyebrows suggestively. Balthazar laughs while the rest of the group gags, so Gabriel gestures for him to go next.

“I’m Balthazar, I was an angel, and I hate Titanic,” Balthazar says, tone of voice conveying that this is one of the stupidest things he’s done. “Cassie?”

Cas clears his throat and focusses on a fleck or red paint on the floor. “I’m Cas, and I was a hunter, and I don’t know what else to say,” he says self-consciously.

Anna is up next, and tells Gabriel exactly where he can put his little meet-and-greet and refuses to say more than her name. Jody nods approvingly, and Christie sighs happily, pleased with the badassness, as she says. Cas wants to laugh at her.

After that, no one else wants to introduce themselves by saying much of anything.

“Jody. Police officer.”

“Charlie. Currently unemployed.”

“Becky. Editor.”

“Chuck. Writer and prophet.”

“Ben. Teenager.”

“Dean. Hunter.”

“Christie. Demon,” Christie says. Cas blushes deep red, covering his mouth with one hand. All eyes are on him, and he can feel them as if they were boring holes right through his body. “Sorry,” Christie says from between his fingers.

The new girl speaks up. “What was that?”

Thankfully, everyone looks to her. She’s tall, pale, and sickly thin. Her eyes are a vibrant blue, and veins spiderweb across her translucent skin. She looks a minute away from dying, or collapsing, or both. Cas instantly wants to protect her from what’s about to happen to her, but it can’t be helped.

“There’s a demon inside him,” Dean says. “We need to put her in you.”

The girl—her name is Mary, Cas remembers—coughs. She looks at Dean with wide, terrified eyes. “What?”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Christie purrs. It sounds entirely wrong coming from Cas’ mouth. “I promise, I won’t hurt you. I just need to borrow your body for a bit, and you’ll be able to go back to your family.”

Mary shakes her head vehemently. “No, I didn’t—I didn’t want this. Please, don’t do anything!” she pleads, and Cas can feel his heart tear into smaller pieces. It seems like that’s been happening a lot lately. He licks his lips distractedly, unsure of whether or not he can taste Dean there.

It’s too late. The room is filled with thick black smoke and Cas can feel a strange absence in his head, reminiscent of when he fell from Grace, and Jimmy Novak died. Mary is screaming, terrified and horrified all at once. Then everything is achingly silent.

Mary clears her throat, and her tone of voice is completely different when she speaks. “Oh, thank Father. I thought I’d never get out of there. Do you even know how sad it is in that man’s head?”

XXXXX

Cas coughs into his sleeve. His head feels vast and empty, full of nothingness and words unspoken. He flinches away from the sheer blankness of it all, terrified of getting lost inside. It reminds him of Heaven; stark and white and numb.

Mary rolls her head on her shoulders, cracking her neck. She grins and rubs her palms together, then delightedly cracks her knuckles. “Oh, I think I like this one,” she purrs.

Cas stretches his arms, working out the knots that have sprung up in his joints from lack of use. He tries to flex his wings—only, they aren’t there. He furrows his brow in confusion, turning around to see if they’re still attached to his back. They aren’t.

“The wings must have been tied to Christie’s presence inside of you,” Chuck muses, picking up on what Cas is doing. “They manifested a little while before you were possessed, right after she accidentally tied herself to you. Demons must trigger wings.”

“Hold on,” Balthazar orders, staring at Cas with wide eyes. “You mean those were in this plane the whole time?”

“Yes,” Cas says slowly, wondering what his brother is getting at.

Gabriel claps his hands and whistles. “We thought those were in the ethereal plane, like ours are. Nice feathers, baby bro!”

“Odd coloration, though,” Anna mentions. “Black is typically only common in fallen angels.”

The whole room seems to hold its breath. Everyone looks around, meeting each other’s eyes briefly as if to argue over who has to tell them. Chuck shuffles his feet, staring at the floor and decidedly not looking up. Becky and Charlie are holding frantic eye contact, and the rest of them are simply interestedly watching the windows. Christie clears her throat, but doesn’t speak.

Cas finally takes initiative. “I am a fallen angel,” he admits softly, shamefully.

The angels seem to be in various states of disbelief. Gabriel doesn’t look all that affected. Anna’s eyes are bugging and she has both hands clapped over her mouth. Balthazar has both eyebrows raised judgingly, though he doesn’t seem very bothered.

“I fell when the other angels left,” Cas continues, hushed tones forcing everyone to lean in to hear. “I stayed with Dean, instead of going home with them. I’m sorry.”

Gabriel lunges for Cas, pulling him into a tight embrace, stooped awkwardly and elbowing the others out of the way. Cas squirms, uncomfortable, but Gabriel doesn’t seem to notice or care about the awkward position. “Don’t be sorry,” he whispers forcefully. “Never be sorry for choosing your happiness over family.”

Dean clears his throat awkwardly, and Gabriel backs off with a glare. Dean nods at him, an emotionless movement, and says, “Do you guys know about the Prince of Hell and Crowley’s deal?”

Anna nods. “We were informed by the people at Buster Radio, yeah.”

A humorless, somewhat cruel smile stretches across Dean’s face. “Then let’s get this summoning on the road!”

XXXXX

The evening is cool and crisp, with the barest hint of snow on the wind. Cas stands in an empty garage, huddled into his jacket, alongside Dean, Christie, and Ben. The reasoning behind Ben’s presence is that he needs to see a real demon—Christie protested vehemently when this was announced, claiming to be demon enough to take on twenty human men—and that if he can handle this, he can fight in the battle that is certain to come.

Personally, Cas thinks this is an awful idea. Getting Ben close to Crowley would only open them up to attacks against the boy that no one knows is Dean’s son. But he can’t exactly tell Dean this.

The devil’s trap is painted in bright yellow on the dusty concrete, painstakingly exact and without a single error. Dean is standing at the edge, running his fingers over the edge of his demon-killing knife, talking to Ben in quiet, urgent tones. Cas watches them and wishes he still had wings to express his distress with.

“Stand back. I’m doing the summoning,” Dean says loudly. Ben hurries to stand next to Cas, look of sheer terror on his young face. Cas tries to give him an encouraging smile, but Ben isn’t looking at him. His eyes are trained on Dean.

Dean says the summoning, his voice gliding over the Latin in a way Cas’ can’t anymore. His voice gets steadily louder, until he’s nearly shouting, reciting from a dusty old tome pulled from the back of Gabriel’s truck. Dean throws the book onto the floor and runs his knife over his palm, not wincing when red droplets of blood fall into the cup he holds under his hand.

There’s a flash, and Cas blinks. When he opens his eyes again, there’s another man in the garage.

“Bollocks,” Crowley says, looking around at the bright yellow devil’s trap with a scrutinizing expression. “What do you want?”

Christie makes a vaguely scared noise in the back of her throat.

“You know damn well what we want,” Dean fires back, taking a threatening step forward. Crowley watches him passively, one eyebrow raised in a silent _fuck you._

“I’m assuming you want to talk about the Prince of Hell,” Crowley says. “But for all I know, you want me to manifest a pole and dance for you.”

Crowley grins mockingly at Dean’s horrified face. Christie gags, covering her mouth with both hands. Crowley smirks at them for a second before returning his attention to Dean, who says, “Tell us what you know about your Prince.”

Crowley sighs and shakes his head. “My darling Prince left about a month ago, and could be anywhere, in anyone. I don’t know where the bugger got to. Figure it out yourselves.”

“I need to know more about him,” Dean pleads, voice taking on a desperate edge. “Or I can’t find him for you.”

“You’ll know when you do. It seems being a right bastard runs in the family,” Crowley says with a smirk. “But enough about my family. Let’s talk about yours.”

Cas suddenly finds himself being stared down by the King of Hell. He doesn’t dare blink, and stands frozen and stiff as Crowley scrutinizes him. Cas can feel his gaze, unpleasant and demonic.

“Hello, Castiel. Hello, Ben,” Crowley greets. “Hello, random demon who is betraying her kin with her mere presence.” Christie squeaks and takes a step closer to Cas, slim fingers clutching at his sleeve. Ben follows suit, and Cas is left wondering why they would assume he’d be able to protect them in a fight.

“So if you can’t tell us anything else, I’m going to banish you,” Dean says conversationally, eyes hard as steel.

Crowley sighs tiredly. “I don’t know where the little dumbass ran off to. I appreciate the summoning, though. Very nice to get a break from trying to run a country as it dissolves into anarchy. It’s always good for a kingdom at war with itself to lose its King once in a while,” he complains sarcastically.

Dean mutters in Latin once more, and there’s another flash of light. When Cas looks, up, Crowley is gone, leaving only a faint hint of sulfur on the air.

XXXXX

“Well, that told us nothing,” Dean says casually. He spins his knife by the handle, point down on the table, brow furrowed in unspoken frustration. Cas nods and makes an affirmative sound in the back of his throat.

“It told us that Hell is at war with itself,” Christie offers, twirling a lock of Mary’s dull blond hair around a finger. Ben nods reluctantly, shaking in his boots.

“And that Crowley doesn’t know where his son is,” Cas says.

The two hunters and the demon look at each other with sad, heavy gazes. Nobody wants to admit it, but their chances aren’t looking good. If Cas still had Christie in his head, he would have told her. As it is, he’s alone now.

“Dammit,” Dean mutters. He slams a hand on the table, and Cas is the only one who doesn’t jump. He’s used to it by now. He can handle all of Dean’s hitting and stabbing, so long as it’s not Cas on the other end of the blows. He can deal with cursing and screaming too, but only if he’s the one receiving it. After all, just because he doesn’t want to be physically hurt doesn’t mean he doesn’t deserve to be hated. He broke Dean.

“Do you think the angels could help?” Ben pipes up, arms crossed firmly over his skinny chest. There are dark circles under his eyes, and he’s still shaking. The poor thing is covered in bruises, most likely from the long journey to Maine. It makes Cas want to laugh bitterly that all these people did so much, just to get here, to Dean, to this abandoned town called Hope.

Dean perks up a bit. “Would they know any spells?”

Cas thinks it over, and can feel the surge of adrenaline when he realizes that they might. “Balthazar might. He’d be the one to ask,” he says, reveling in the light that comes into Dean’s eyes. For the first time in a long time, there’s hope there, chasing away the darkness that clouds that stunning green.

“Then let’s ask him,” Dean declares, and pockets his knife. Cas nods and follows Dean obediently outside, trailing behind as Dean stalks along the cracked sidewalk. He stares around at the grey sky and the mist created by his breath in the air. Shivering, Cas tucks his hands into his pockets.

Christie jogs to catch up to Cas, leaving Ben to trudge along behind the group by himself. She places a hand on the work fabric of Cas’ jacket and leans in close. “I don’t think I like this body,” she confides.

“Why not?” Cas asks.

“It’s weak,” Christie murmurs in his ear. “She was dying of some sort of bone disease when I got her. She’s fragile.” Her tone clearly depicts her displeasure at having a weakened vessel. Cas wants to berate her for her blatant apathy, but he doesn’t get a chance.

“You two done gossiping?” Dean demands gruffly, glancing over his shoulder. Cas can feel his face heat and he shakes his head awkwardly. Christie laughs, tucking a strand of blond hair behind an ear, and winks at Dean.

“Don’t worry, Dumbass. I’m not stealing your man-friend here,” she purrs. “Or your kiddie,” she adds with a glance at Ben.

“Shut up,” Dean grumbles, and Christie rolls her eyes.

END CHAPTER FIVE

The next day dawns cold and misty, like most of the recent ones, but with more people around. Cas opens his eyes to find himself on the floor by the vitamin aisle, bottle of whiskey clutched in his hand. His head pounds and he can’t remember getting home last night, but he shrugs and takes a mouthful anyway. They’re all going to die soon. Why stay sober for the bitter end?

He stumbles into the area with the couches—is it a living room? does it really have a name?—and collapses onto the floor near the radio, reaching up and fumbling with the dial. Balthazar is reclining, asleep, on one of the couches, Anna next to him, Charlie at the other end. The other loveseat contains Becky and Chuck with Jody on an air mattress at their feet. Ben is asleep on another air mattress and Dean is nowhere to be found. Neither is Christie.

The radio crackles when he finally gets it on, and half of the people in the room startle awake instantly. Anna has a sword in her hand and Chuck looks terrified enough to faint. Cas laughs and takes a swig off his bottle. “Morning, group!”

“Castiel?” Gabriel asks, poking his head up from behind one of the couches. His hair is sticking straight up in most places, and he blinks blearily. “Are you drinking?”

Cas looks down at the bottle in his hand thoughtfully. “I suppose I am.”

Chuck groans and clutches his head, Becky rubbing soothing circles on his back. He coughs and when he speaks, his voice is weak and raspy. “I knew this was coming.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Balthazar asks, confused.

Chuck looks up at him, eyes far away. “I’m a prophet. That’s what that’s supposed to mean.”

“Amazing comeback from the human!” Gabriel crows, and Cas rolls his eyes. Anna stands and cracks her knuckles, rolling her eyes.

“I’m going on a run. Well, technically I’m going to call it a patrol so we sound professional, but really I just want to get away from people for a bit. Anybody up for it?” she asks, and a few hands go up. Balthazar and Jody are the only ones that end up going out to patrol the area, with orders from Chuck to not go very far.

Cas turns the dial on the radio a bit more, and music starts playing, crackly and soft. He sighs heavily and stares in disapproval at the bottle in his hand, wondering just when he decided to take up drinking. The night before is a blur, everything from the summoning onward blacked out.

“So, how did everybody sleep?” he asks, gaze flitting from one pair of concerned eyes to the next. Ben gets up and walks out, arms folded over his chest, back ramrod straight. Cas watches him go in confusion, brow furrowed. “What’s up with him?”

Gabriel settles a glare on him, and Cas wants to shrink back. As it is, he takes another drink from his bottle, feeling the headache lessen slightly with every sip. Maybe Dean was right; the only surefire cure for a hangover is to not stop drinking. Gabriel clears his throat and Cas blinks at him innocently.

“You got drunk and told Ben that Dean was his father. When we tried to deny it—for his own personal safety—he asked Chuck, since Chuck would know. Poor Chuck couldn’t tell him, because his visions have been so muddled recently that he isn’t sure _what’s_ true. Then you and Dean got into a fight. You fucked up, baby bro,” Gabriel says, still glaring. He stabs a finger in the direction of Cas’ hand.

Cas glances down at his knuckles. They’re scraped and bruised a dull purple color, and he wonders if the wall is okay. Hopefully he didn’t punch it too hard, or Dean will be livid when he has to patch it up again.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, tapping out a nervous rhythm on the glass bottle. He truly is, but he can’t really remember why he should be. When he gets to thinking about it, he doesn’t remember why he should be sorry about any number of things. Maybe he should drink more often.

“Just turn up the radio and shut up,” Gabriel orders, and leaps over the back of the couch to land on Charlie. She squeaks and tenses up, suddenly confronted with a lapful of irritated archangel. Gabriel gets off of her without a word and settles in at the other end of the couch, curled up in as small a ball as he can get.

Cas reaches up and turns the radio up, the familiar strains of a Led Zeppelin song washing over him. He sighs heavily and surveys the remaining population of the room. Gabriel is brooding, cross-legged and angry. Charlie appears to be thinking hard on something, eyes squinty and distracted. Becky is still rubbing Chuck’s back, and Chuck may or may not be unconscious.

“Good morning!” the radio crows, and everyone visibly jumps. “This is Jay over at Buster Radio, and I would like to wish you a happy Halloween, if you’re still into creepy shit now that the world is one big Halloween party, just minus the fun and booze.”

There’s a thump, like someone’s been hit, and another voice takes over. “And this is Rodney, also of Buster Radio. And here is your morning news. Unless you have an iron will, I suggest sitting down and grabbing a beer. I know we say that every day, but today you’re going to need it.”

Gabriel sighs heavily and turns his glare on the radio, which gives a worrying squeak. Chuck coughs again, and Becky shushes him. The radio crackles, as if Rodney and Jay are silently debating over who has to read the news report.

Finally Jay leans in to the microphone and lets out a shuddering breath. “Alright, folks. I don’t want to have to read this off, but I have to because literally everyone else here is too much of a dick to do it. And I don’t mean dick as in jerk, I mean dick as in pussy. Except pussies are much stronger than dicks. And there’s your vocabulary lesson for the day!”

There’s the sound of the microphone being passed over to Rodney, and Cas realizes that they must have made a deal to read them in turns, and that Jay simply picked one at random.

“Bastard,” Rodney shoots back venomously. He clears his throat and audibly tries to keep his voice from shaking. “We’ve just got reports that Lucifer has been spotted near the bombed-out remains of New York City. We know for a fact that a lot of survivors are holed up there, and we want to send them our thoughts and prayers. We can only hope that he either leaves them alone or kills them quickly.”

The microphone is passed back, and Jay sighs heavily. “We also have reports of massive Croat gatherings in Albany. If anyone is in or around the state of New York, please be on alert. It looks like that’s the next place on Lucifer’s list of places to destroy.”

“You are advised to take what you can and leave. The people at a few radio stations in New York are receiving our transmission right now, and they’re playing it over your radio. If you can hear me, I’m Rodney, and I live in Maine. You are welcome to come up to our state. It’s one of the safest, and we’d love to have you.”

Jay takes the microphone back and taps on it, making Cas wince. “In happier news, the people down at the Miller Radio Station are telling us that they have a position open as a newscaster, and if you’re interested, you should act now before the spots are taken.”

Cas laughs. “Maybe we should all go work for them, and actually have lives.” No one else seems to find it funny.

Gabriel turns off the radio with a glare, and Cas sighs.

“So it sounds like Lucifer is coming in our direction,” Gabriel says loudly, casually. “Maybe he got wind of what we’re trying to do, and wants to get rid of us before we can succeed.”

“Either that or he just wanted a vacation,” Cas suggests, and then furrows his brow. He usually doesn’t act like this. What he’s been saying lately is completely out of character. He frowns down at the bottle and wonders just how much he’s been drinking, and resolves to put it away as soon as possible.

“What the hell is up with you lately, baby bro?” Gabriel asks angrily. “You aren’t yourself. I know you’re Fallen now, but that doesn’t change the way you act.”

Cas tries to fix him in his glare, but his eyes glaze over until he’s just staring at a wall of fuzz where his brother should be. “I don’t know. Maybe we’re all just broken.”

There’s a shocked, stunned silence. Cas looks at the faces of the assembled and recognizes the glazed-over eyes that always come with sudden realization. He coughs and stands, staggering a few steps before he nearly collapses on top of Charlie. She looks slightly less annoyed at the thought of having Cas collapse onto than her than she did when it was Gabriel.

There’s another beat of silence, and then the door opens. Cas expects it to be Anna’s patrol, returning early because of something horrible happening outside. Clearly, so does Chuck, because he shouts, “I didn’t see anything bad happening!”

“Then you need your eyes checked,” Dean grumbles, cracking his knuckles.

“Sorry,” Chuck mumbles with a wince, clutching his head. “I think my vision is going off quicker than I originally thought it would. I’ve been having monster headaches and seeing the… most terrible things...” Chuck trails off and stares into the distance with the air of a war veteran remembering the horrors of trench warfare.

Cas looks up at Dean, expecting him to blow up on Chuck for being soft, or maybe comfort him. Instead he’s distracted by the bruise that covers Dean’s eye, swelling it halfway shut and showing up brilliantly against his skin, dull purple and red and _painful._

“Nice shiner,” Becky says respectfully, nodding in what appears to be half approval and half worry. Dean doesn’t respond, instead settling a glare on Cas. And suddenly Cas understands. He looks down at his split knuckles and has to suppress a shudder. He feels sick.

“Dean?” Cas says softly, desperately, involuntarily.

“Cas,” Dean replies, voice hard as brick and unyielding.

Dean doesn’t answer, not meeting Cas’ eyes.

“Dean, is everything okay?” Charlie asks, sounding worried.

Dean sighs and shakes his head, jabbing a finger at Cas and then back at himself. “Not gonna lie to you. Me and him, it’s a pretty messed up situation. But if you need to know something, you will know it.” A small look of horror flashes in his eyes, but it’s gone as quickly as it came, leaving Cas to wonder just what about that sentence was so wrong. Dean blusters along without stopping.

“Do any of you know of a summoning that can get us a particular demon without accidentally summoning the wrong one?” he asks. His question is met with silence.

It’s Gabriel that speaks first. “Do you know the demon’s name?”

Dean shakes his head. “It’s the Prince of Hell that we need. I don’t know if he has a name.”

“Balthazar was saying something about a summoning that might work yesterday,” Gabriel offers. “You’ll have to ask him when he gets back.”

“Ask who what?” Balthazar asks, holding open the door so that the rest of the patrol can get out of the rain. He looks windswept and tired, and Jody is panting slightly. Anna is the only one who seems remotely alright, hair pulled back into a bun and sleeves rolled up. All three of them are wet.

“Ask you about that summoning you were talking about yesterday,” Gabriel says, patting the couch next to him so that Balthazar can sit down. Balthazar manages to wedge himself in between Charlie—who seems torn between annoyance and terror—and Gabe. “Remember? You were saying about how you could find a demon without knowing its name.”

Balthazar looks lost, but only for a split second. Then his face lights up in recognition. “Oh, yes! Why, do we need it?”

“Hell yeah,” Dean grumbles, though he doesn’t seem near as irate as before.

“Then yes, I know a spell,” Balthazar says, small smile lighting up his face. Dean grins bitterly, without much hope, as if he’s finally realized that he’s not going to make it out of this fight. The thought is a punch to Cas’ gut, but he casts it out of his mind; he doesn’t need to think about it now.

“Alright. Let’s do it,” Dean says, halfway between savagery and excitement.

XXXXX

“We should get Christie for this,” Cas suggests, and receives several hard gazes. They’re mostly assembled in the basement of the drugstore, either helping paint sigils or just lounging around in wait. Dean is the only one that doesn’t look up from his intricate painting.

“Why?” Anna asks, honestly curious.

“Because she’s a traitor to her own kind, and we’re going to bring a very powerful one within a mile of her. I just thought she’d be safer with us than without,” Cas replies with a shrug. Gabriel nods understandingly, and Chuck hums under his breath in agreement.

“Where is she?” Jody asks. “Did anybody see her this morning?”

There’s an all-around exchange of head-shaking, negative murmurs, and worried looks. Cas realizes that he hasn’t seen Christie since the summoning last night, and even then she seemed a bit off. “Maybe she ran off,” he suggests. “She could have realized just how much trouble she’d be in back in Hell, and she decided to get out.”

“Could be,” Gabriel suggests, face and tone dark as night. “Or maybe she went back to alert the others to attack.”

“What do you mean?” Becky demands, frustrated. “Was she a traitor?”

“I don’t know,” Gabriel allows grudgingly. “But it seemed fishy. A demon, hanging around for no reason? When she could have gotten away from us and been safer, miles away? Didn’t that strike anyone else as odd?”

“A little,” Charlie says nervously, fiddling with her hair. “I’ll go look for her, if you want.”

Anna stands up. “I’ll go too.”

Dean sighs heavily and stands, temporarily abandoning his devil’s trap and glaring at the assembled masses. He presses his fingers into his temple, eyes closed, as if trying to work through a monster headache. “Fine. Take a few and go after her. Shoot if you have to.”

“Come on, then,” Anna says. Charlie, Jody, Balthazar, and Gabriel go with her, leaving Cas alone with Dean, Chuck, and Becky. Ben is still upstairs somewhere, and no one has the courage or the heart to go get him and bring him down.

Dean goes back to painting the sigil on the floor, and a tense silence falls over the room. Cas avoids meeting the gazes of any of his friends, preferring to watch the floor with a rapt attention. He chews his lip and waits.

It doesn’t take long for Becky to break the silence. “So what are we going to do?”

“About?” Dean asks, voice like ice.

“For the summoning. What does it involve, exactly?”

Dean stands and turns on her, arms folded across his chest. She seems to shrink back, drawing herself closer to Chuck. “It’s just like a regular summoning, but with some Enochian thrown in. Well, okay, a ton of Enochian. No virgins, though, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Dean smirks and goes back to his work, and Cas is struck by the notion that the smirk was the happiest expression he’s seen Dean wear in a long time. Even with the huge purple bruise, for a split second, his face was almost back to how it was Before Sam. For just that tiny molecule of time, Dean was Dean again.

Cas finds himself smiling slightly, and quickly kills the expression. He glances up to make sure no one saw. Chuck meets his eye, gaze sad and understanding. Cas blushes and looks back down, trying not to seem too guilty while also making a valiant attempt to not read too much into Chuck’s expression.

He’s about to say something to distract himself when the heavy metal door clangs open, footsteps crashing down the stairs. All eyes turn to the stairwell, where Jody is standing, panting and white-faced.

“What happened?” Cas demands, leaping to his feet. He stumbles and catches himself against the wall.

“It’s Ben,” Jody half-shouts between heavy breaths. “He’s not breathing.”

Dean’s up and running—sprinting—to the door, pushing Jody aside with a hurried shove. She fetches up against the wall and shouts a protest, but Dean’s already gone, his footsteps echoing above their heads. Cas follows with only slightly less haste, mind racing a million miles a second, already gathering as much information on the human anatomy and circulatory system as he knows. He can hear the others coming after him, but they’re background noise. More prevalent is Dean’s frenzied shouting, and the whoosh of blood in his ears.

Cas sprints through half the store, shouting Dean’s name, before he finds them. It’s a terrible sight. A dark red pool of blood coats the white tiled floor, sticky and at least an hour old. It’s far too wide for anyone to survive losing it, much less someone as small as Ben. The aforementioned lies in the center, limbs splayed, eyes wide open in a glassy, preserved horror that Cas never wants to see again. There’s a gasp frozen on his lips, pale and bloodless and unable to finish the scream that was surely fighting its way out. His shirt, once light grey, is stained through with dark red. In the middle of his thin chest, right between the ribs, is a gash about six inches long, thin and deep, piercing the heart and at least one lung.

Dean in kneeling beside the fallen boy, cradling his lifeless head, either not noticing or not caring about the blood that stains his jeans. He’s not crying and he’s not shaking; rather, he’s peering down at Ben’s face without emotion. Both Dean and Ben have eyes wide open, lips gaping, but Dean is completely devoid of expression whereas Ben has one of pain and terror forever embossed on such regularly placid features.

“Dean,” Chuck calls, jogging onto the scene. Cas spins, catching Chuck’s eye and giving a minute shake of his head to quell any further outbursts. Becky is on Chuck’s heels, with Jody right behind them. The others, already clustered around the gore, don’t look up. The angels’ faces are dark and sad as they peer down at a lost life, one of their father’s finest creations, wasted.

Dean doesn’t look up. As Cas watches he begins to shake, first his hands and then his whole body, teeth clacking together irregularly, breath coming in panicked gasps. He shakes his head violently, tiny murmurs of _no_ coming from his choked throat.

Cas takes a step forward, one hand automatically reaching for Dean. It’s only then that Dean looks up, such an intense sadness in his eyes, expression one of unconcealed grief. There are tears sparkling in his eyes, and Cas is suddenly thrown back eight months, to the day Sam died, to when they drove for eight hours straight and barreled into a hospital and slept on the floor of the hallway because neither of them were strong enough to leave. Back to when Sam spoke his last words and Dean stopped talking for so long and Cas finally realized just what he’s done to Dean, just how much he’s broken in him.

“Dean,” Cas murmurs, softly and gently as he can manage, and takes another step forward. He knows that what Dean needs is a soothing voice, a kind one, but all he can manage is the same deep rumble that he’s always had. “Dean, come here.”

Dean obeys like a child, a lost lamb in the woods, at the mercy of any wolf that would come along and nip at his heels just to watch him dance. He stands and takes a shaky step toward Cas, boot landing in the thick of the blood. Dean looks down at the soft squishing noise and his breath hitches, teeth gritting. His eyes go round, nearly comically so, and Cas can feel the remains of his previously shattered heart quiver.

Dean stares down at the floor, eyes slightly glazed over. His chest heaves and Cas can barely hear a thin whimpering sound escape from between his lips.

“Dean. Dean, look at me,” Cas orders, allowing a hint of his old formality to seep through, the soldier in him coming out once more to comfort an old war buddy. Dean’s head snaps up, frantic gaze seeking Cas’ blue eyes. Cas holds out a hand and nods at Dean, trying to communicate just how urgent it is that Dean get away from the body of his fallen friend. “Come here.”

Dean obeys, taking small steps and moving like a wooden puppet with half its strings cut; stiff and erratic. When he reaches grabbing distance, Cas lunges forward and pulls Dean closer, wrapping his arms around the hunter’s shoulders and holding him close. Dean shudders, but it’s not quite a sob. Yet.

Cas looks up to find everyone staring at him, standing around like deer in headlights. “Clean this up. We meet in the basement when everything is done. Just… burn the body. Be careful when you go outside. We don’t know who did this.”

They spring into motion like a disturbed hill of ants, some hurrying off to get mops and buckets, some heading for Ben’s body, some simply going to stand in a different corner and watch. Cas takes Dean’s hand and leads him away, Dean following without protest.

Cas knows enough of humans to know that Dean’s in shock.

Which is especially terrifying, knowing what Dean’s been through without it.

“Hey, Dean, look at me,” Cas murmurs, stopping in the allergy aisle and turning to Dean. Dean meets his gaze with round eyes, rapid breaths making his chest heave. Cas makes an effort to keep his voice gentle. “Listen. You’re in shock. Okay? People who go into shock because of a sudden fear or emotional trauma come back out of it when they’re comforted. Listen to me, Dean. You’re going to be fine.”

“Yeah,” Dean manages, fear in his eyes.

“I’m here. And I’m never leaving you. Even if we do finally get the angels back and you say yes to Michael and he leaves you a broken and mindless husk, I’ll still be here. I will never leave you. Understand?”

Dean nods, seemingly calming down slightly.

“And if we don’t, then I’m still with you forever. No matter how badly you piss me off. No matter how much I know you hate me. No matter how many screaming matches, black eyes, and sleepless nights we have to go through. I’ll always be here.”

Dean blinks, and when he opens his eyes, they’re calmer. His breathing has slowed down considerably and he doesn’t seem so close to passing out.

“Cas,” he rasps.

“I’m here,” Cas breathes, and pulls Dean into his arms. Dean goes willingly, clinging tightly to Cas’ oversized old t-shirt, hands caught between their chests. Cas can feel tiny spots of moisture on his shirt where Dean has his head buried in the former angel’s shoulder, but he doesn’t care. All Cas does is rub small circles into Dean’s back and make soft shushing sounds, interspersed with reaffirmations of his presence.

“Don’t ever leave,” Dean whispers, though if Cas was being truly cruel he would classify it as a sob.

“I won’t,” Cas murmurs, tightening his hold on Dean’s shoulders.

“You already have,” is Dean’s response.

Cas, shocked, pulls back. He keeps their bodies pressed together but stares, both horrified and confused, into Dean’s watery eyes. Dean stares back with an open, earnest expression, which is quickly clouded when he realizes he’s said too much.

“What do you mean?” Cas asks, voice hushed, pulled down by a million horrific possibilities.

Dean doesn’t meet his eyes. “You’re taking drugs and getting drunk, Cas. That’s not you. You’re—you’re not like that.”

There’s a churning, sick feeling in the pit of Cas’ stomach. He wants to throw up, which he’s only done once and found deeply unpleasant. “Dean. I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Dean says, sounding resigned. He shakes his head, giving up, and tries to pull back. Cas is torn between letting him and pulling him back in. He opts to do neither; he doesn’t let go, but he doesn’t move either. Dean freezes. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” Cas repeats, for lack of anything to say.

“Then stop,” Dean says. His voice is hushed and pleading.

“I will,” Cas whispers, and Dean pulls them back together.

The kiss is slow, soft, gentle. At first Cas isn’t entirely sure what Dean wants, but it soon becomes apparent. He closes his eyes and goes with it, just stops thinking and feels. Dean is warm and comforting in his arms and his lips are softer than they have any right to be. Cas can feel Dean’s heartbeat, rapid and feather-light against his chest. His own heart is racing as well.

Everything is surreal. From the moment he woke up, the day has been as far from ordinary as it gets in this hellish post-apocalypse. But this, this kiss, is enough to make it all worth it.

Dean pokes him in the chest, and Cas is spurred into motion, lips moving with Dean’s, arms pulling Dean tighter against him. He can’t help but let out a small, contented sigh, and Dean laughs against his mouth. Cas responds by laughing back, grin threatening to break them apart.

Dean sighs and pulls back, resting their foreheads together. His eyes are shut, but Cas’ are wide open, taking in the sight of Dean’s beautiful face, all those freckles that he’s always wanted to count, the small scars on his cheeks and around his lips from countless fights. He’s trying to imprint this amazing man onto his memory forever, so that should they succeed in their mission against Lucifer, and Dean is gone forever, he’ll never be truly alone. Cas never wants to be without those smiling green eyes, greener than anything he’d ever seen, lovelier than a summer sunrise and rare as hen’s teeth.

Without looking up, Dean whispers, “We’d better do that summoning.”

“Don’t you want to find whatever did that to Ben first?” Cas asks, knowing even as he does so that it’s a mistake. Sure enough, Dean’s whole body goes rigid, and he pulls back, stepping away from Cas’ embrace. Without his warmth, Cas is suddenly colder than he can remember being in a long time.

“I know what did it,” Dean mutters, face hardening into the frown lines that are already so prevalent on his young face. Honestly, he’s not even forty yet. No man with as much life left to live as Dean has—would have had—deserves such unhappiness that it would cause those premature lines.

“What?” Cas asks, though he’s not sure if he’s protesting Dean’s assumption or if he’s asking.

Dean meets his gaze then, fire in the depths of such formerly gentle, sad eyes. Cas is struck by the sudden need to take a step back, and possibly hide. Dean growls out a name.

“It was Christie.”

END CHAPTER SIX

“Why do you think that?” Cas asks, voice hushed. “Why would she?”

Dean shakes his head in exasperation, becoming less like the Dean Cas knows from long ago. He’s shoving emotion away, pushing off his feelings and draping himself in a hard exterior like one would don a winter coat, back straightening and eyes growing distant, closed off and empty. It’s heartbreaking to watch, and Cas can feel himself mimicking Dean by holding himself more stiffly, jaw setting, carefully masking the raw hurt he knows would be showing if he didn’t stop it in its tracks.

“Because everyone else is here, and the store is warded against demons. She was the only one who could get in or out, because we summoned her here. Put the pieces together, Cas,” Dean says forcibly, one arm waving through the air violently like he does when he’s angry. Cas wants to wince, and shrink away from what he knows is the truth. How stupid was he to almost trust her? How did he not see this coming?

“Everyone saw this coming, Cas,” Dean murmurs, almost comfortingly, and Cas starts because it’s almost as if Dean sensed his thoughts. “We didn’t want to believe it, but we knew she’d double-cross us. So now we’re down one, and she’s on the loose with an in-depth rundown of your entire memory, and we just have to do Balthazar’s summoning and hope we don’t die in the process.”

He doesn’t say it, but Cas can hear it all the same. _It’s all your fault, Cas, all your fault._

“I’m sorry,” Cas blurts, and Dean doesn’t respond.

“We have to do that summoning now,” he says instead, and turns on his heel, walking briskly away from his broken, useless, fallen angel. Cas follows, wondering why he’s even still alive, why he still tries to help Dean when all he can do is ruin everything. He’s reminded of a phrase he heard Bobby Singer use once, when he was watching, invisible, as the old hunter downed a shot for every page he turned. _Don’t know why I try. I break everything I touch._

He makes a mental note to locate that bottle of whiskey.

XXXXX

The basement is exactly as they left it, spray-painted and marked up with all sorts of charms, sigils, and diagrams designed to keep in a demonic influence far more powerful than anything they could possibly manage without them. Cas leans against a table covered in various bowls of herbs and suspicious liquids. Dean is in the center of the room, quietly conversing with Balthazar on the best way to go about it. Charlie and Jody are sitting on the bottom step, Chuck and Becky above them, Gabriel and Anna above them. The atmosphere in the room is quiet and subdued, laced with grief and pain that Cas can feel clinging to him like a second skin, a film of ill intent hanging off his every move.

“I think we’re ready,” Balthazar announces, and Cas feels a weight settle in his chest, comprised of mostly dread, with a small measure of fear thrown in. Dean takes his place inside a small protective circle, about a yard from the devil’s trap Balthazar painted earlier. Balthazar comes to stand next to Cas, face carefully blank.

Dean grabs a bowl of sage off the table, lighting a match with tight fingers. Delicate, intricate runes are carved all over the wooden bowl to match the ones painted in thick black lines on the concrete. Dean runs a finger across them, muttering words that he once would have tripped over, tongue caressing the Latin with a precision he hasn’t possessed since Before Sam. Cas strains, but he can’t make out anything definite.

Dean drops his match into the sage, and it goes up in a ball of smoke. He pulls the knife from his pocket, running it across his wrist, making a shallow cut that seeps thick red blood onto the burning plants in the bowl, delicate line of crimson tracing downwards until it drips slowly onto the low-burning flames. Cas can hear Becky’s startled intake of breath, and does his best to ignore it. All his attention must remain on Dean in this moment.

Moving very slowly, Balthazar picks up another bowl, taking exactly three steps to reach Dean and trade it with the burning one in Dean’s hand. Dean lights another match, not once pausing in his carefully pronounced recitation. He carefully dips the match into the bowl, and its contents begin a slow smolder, filling the room with a heady scent that threatens to make Cas sneeze. He thrusts the bowl back into Balthazar’s hands, and Balthazar flits back to the table, placing both burning bowls on the polished surface. He grabs up another two and returns to Dean’s side, not once breaking his stony expression.

With the same match, Dean lights both bowls, and Balthazar takes one back, leaving him in the middle of his ring of runes, clutching tightly to a spitting bowl of sparks. Balthazar grabs a jar of what is probably lamb’s blood and drizzles it onto the smoking plants, mouth silently shaping Enochian vowels and syllables with a practiced ease. Dean, still repeating his low chant, begins to look fearful.

The lamb’s blood jar is half empty when Balthazar hands it back to Dean. Dean dumps it unceremoniously onto his herbs, a small look of distaste flickering across his features. Balthazar takes the bowl from him and sets it onto the table next to the others. Dean’s chant ends.

Now it’s all up to Balthazar. Cas can only hope that everything goes to plan.

With eyes half-closed, Balthazar picks up three vials, holding the between his long fingers in one hand and uncorking them with the other. He turns them upside down and lets the thick liquid inside seep onto each of the four bowls, mutters rising slightly in volume and intensity. He pauses, puts down the vials, and picks up the sage and the bowl still spitting sparks.

There’s a large metal pot on the table, typically used for canning vegetables, improvised in place of a ceremonial chalice. Balthazar hurriedly empties the sage and the sparking herbs into it, deftly reaching for the other two bowls to do the same. He gestures Cas forward, and Cas complies willingly, extending an arm. The blade of Balthazar’s knife is cool and stinging, making a shallow groove in the pale skin of Cas’ forearm, dripping red blood into the canning pot.

Dean takes up his chant once again, but this time it isn’t Latin. He’s clumsy with the Enochian, and it makes Cas’ heart lurch to hear his voice shape the words he can no longer understand. When his Grace was taken, with it went his inherent knowledge of the angels’ native tongue, and it pains him to hear such a longed-for thing coming from a man he loves. A man he cannot love.

Smoke steadily rises from the toxic mixture in the canning pot, prodded onward by Cas’ blood. Balthazar inclines his head to show that Cas can return to his post at the other end of the table, and he goes willingly. Leaning once again against the table, Cas watches Dean’s face flit through emotions; pain and fear and worry and dread and pride and determination.

Dean looks over at Cas right as the room begins to shake. His green eyes are wide and clearer than they have been in a long time, and when he mouths quiet words at Cas, Cas’ mind rejects them immediately and puts them down to nerves and high tensions. Still, he cannot deny that he saw them, heard them, spoken from a face etched with desperation and fear. _If we don’t make it, I’m sorry. I loved you._

There’s a crackle, and an ear-popping snap, as though someone popped a roll of bubble wrap all at once. Cas flinches, and he can hear several startled exclamations from the stairs. When he opens his eyes, the room is filled with smoke, smoke that temporarily obscures the view of the devil’s trap and the figure crouched in it.

The smoke clears, and Cas is brought face-to-face with the Prince of Hell.

XXXXX

A thin blonde girl is glaring at him from the center of the pentagram, hatred marring her pretty face, thin limbs shaking with pent-up violence. She growls low in her throat and her blue eyes are enraged, primal and furious. Cas takes a step back, mind blanking.

“What do you want now?” Christie demands.

Dean’s face is utterly devoid of emotion, and his jaw works for a minute before he spins on Balthazar, who is equally stricken. “I thought you said this would get the Prince of Hell.”

“It did,” Balthazar says simply, staring with wide, curious eyes as Christie lets off a string of curses.

“Damn. I knew this was coming,” she mutters when she’s done.

“It was you the entire time?” Cas asks, because he can’t help himself.

Christie fixes him with a pitying glare. “If you honestly didn’t see this coming, you probably trusted me, which was your first mistake. Honestly, Feathers, were there any other strange demons on the run from Hell? Didn’t think so.”

“But you’re not a prince,” Balthazar seems to feel compelled to point out.

Christie rolls her eyes, folding her hands behind her back and standing up as tall as she can. She reminds Cas of Lucifer for a second, but then the association is gone, and she’s simply an extremely powerful demon wearing an extremely frail girl once more.

“What, girls can’t be princes?” she asks, voice sickly sweet and dripping sarcasm. “Back home, my dad insisted that I rule at some point. But when I took some small margin of power, humanity was at that whole women-can’t-do-anything point, and Hell wasn’t much better. So, I called myself a Prince, and nobody knew the difference. Problems?”

Cas shakes his head, and Christie gives him a grotesque grin. It’s too wide, with too many teeth, reminiscent of a shark bearing down on an injured seal, bloody teeth shining and hollow eyes shimmering black, empty as her soul.

“So, you’re the long-lost Prince of Hell,” Dean summarizes, a peculiar light having taken up residence in his eyes, thin smile gracing his lips. “You left because your country was fighting a civil war that you wanted no part of, and now your dad is looking for you. We return you, and he’ll head off to the portal and send a letter to the angels. They come back, I say yes, and we kill Lucifer. Sound right?”

Christie shakes her head slowly, glaring daggers at Dean’s slightly manic smile. “All correct, though I don’t know if he’ll actually do it. He doesn’t like going near the portal at all. It works both ways, of course, and he’s infinitely terrified of someone coming through to kill him. I don’t actually know why he hasn’t destroyed it yet, but anyway, yes. That’s how it should work.”

Dean nods, tight-lipped and carefully silent. “Good. I’m going to call your dad.”

A flicker of fear crosses Christie’s face, and Dean spins for the stairs. The six on the stairs part down the middle, allowing him to hurry up. Cas glances between Christie’s shocked face and Dean’s retreating back, and follows Dean. Anna smiles encouragingly when he passes. He can’t bring himself to return it.

XXXXX

Dean is behind the pharmacy counter, in what passes for their bedroom, holding another can of spray-paint. He looks dejected and dead inside, and Cas wants nothing more than to comfort him.

“Dean, we don’t have to turn her over to Crowley if you don’t want to,” he offers, and receives a bitter laugh in return.

“Of course I don’t want to. I also don’t want to get possessed by some winged bastard, or kill my little brother, or die,” Dean says. His voice cracks a little when he refers to Sam, and so does Cas’ composure. He takes a step toward Dean, suddenly unsure of whether or not he’s going to faint.

Dean closes the gap between them, wrapping strong arms around Cas and pulling him close. Cas clings to Dean tightly, fingernails digging into the worn material of his jacket, burying his nose into the fabric to try and catch some of the scent that is and always has been purely Dean, a scent made up of motor oil and ash and cheap whiskey. It isn’t there anymore. It hasn’t been since the world ended and Dean stopped driving the Impala. Now he just smells like everything in Hope, Maine; trees and rain and dirt and emptiness. It makes Cas’ head hurt.

“Hey, look at me,” Dean murmurs, fingers ghosting across Cas’ chin when he pulls them apart to get a look at Cas’ face. His green eyes—so very green, greener than anything Cas has seen since Eden—seem to peer into the depths of Cas’ soul, and falter at what they must see. “Listen, I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be,” Cas protests, but Dean stops him with a gentle finger on his lips.

“Shut up and let me talk. I’m sorry. I’ve been really out of it since Sam… well, since Sam. I know I’ve been weird, and it’s because I suck at emotions. I, uh, I can’t process things well. When I lost him, I lost everything. You understand.”

Cas nods. “Of course,” he says, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t understand what Dean is saying, because none of that was Dean’s fault. All of it, everything was Cas. And he doesn’t hesitate from saying so.

“But, Dean, it’s not your fault. It’s mine. I’m the one who let Sam out of the panic room so he could set Lucifer free. I’m the one who insisted you follow the angels’ plan and separate. It’s my fault, not yours.”

Dean looks stricken and tightens his grip on Cas imperceptibly. “You’re stupid if you think that’s true.”

“Then I’m stupid.”

“You really must be.”

“I’m not lying to you, Dean.”

“I know.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

They stare into each other’s eyes a moment longer, and then their mouths are moving together, hot and warm and insistent. Cas isn’t sure who started it, but he’s not going to end it, not when Dean’s tongue is persistently licking its way into his mouth, and Dean is backing him up against the wall, and they’re pressed so close together. Cas can’t help a groan, and Dean laughs against his lips, tongue tracing along Cas’ upper lip. Cas sighs and pulls Dean tighter against him, flush against his body. Every part of them is touching, from their mouths to their chests to their legs.

Cas lets himself get lost in the kiss, hands sinking lower on Dean to rest at the small of his back, Dean pressing him into the wall and moving against him, pulling his body tight against his own. Cas responds in kind, fingers pressing into Dean’s skin, feeling the muscle and bone beneath. He traces his way upwards, counting the vertebrae in Dean’s back, feeling Dean shiver against his hands.

It feels as if everything is happening at once, and Cas doesn’t want it to stop. He can feel himself blushing up to the roots of his hair, cheeks red and pupils blown wide, and if he were to pull away his lips would be swollen and wet. But he’s not going to pull away.

There’s a startled noise from the other room, and Dean stops moving abruptly. He pulls back, just taking his head away, not moving the rest of his body from where it’s pressed against Cas. And then his eyes are widening and his face turns beet red, and he steps away. Cas forces himself to relax a little, and follows Dean’s gaze.

Becky Rosen looks embarrassed enough for the three of them.

“Um, I just wanted—I mean, I was going to—uh. Crowley?” she squeaks, very desperately trying not to stare and failing. Cas rearranges his shirt, blushing furiously, walking behind the counter to hide the pitifully tight bulge in his pants. Dean seems to have the same idea, but that brings them close together again, and he springs away like a scorched cat. Dean rubs the back of his neck, not meeting Becky’s eyes at all.

“Yeah, just came up for more paint,” he says gruffly, and Becky nods, movements quick and choppy. Her eyes are wide enough that Cas almost fears that she’s going to hurt herself. “Um. Be down in a minute.”

Becky darts away, her shoes clicking against the linoleum. When she’s gone, Dean expels a breath, running a hand through his mussed hair. He doesn’t meet Cas’ eyes when he says, “Sorry. Uh. We should probably do that summoning.”

Cas nods numbly, and wonders why he can’t have nice things.

XXXXX

The basement is deathly still and quiet when they return with the paint. Cas sits on the step above Gabriel and Anna, Balthazar next to him, while Dean draws another devil’s trap. They seem to have formed stands, the eight of them, to watch the upcoming exchange from a safe distance. Gabriel turns to him and winks at him, obviously having guessed exactly what went on upstairs. Cas blushes and looks away, wishing he hadn’t allowed himself to believe something so good could happen to him. Good things don’t happen, and he knows it.

“Wait!” Christie shouts suddenly, arms hugging her thin frame. She tries for confidence and just barely falls short, biting her bottom lip. “Don’t you want to know any more about me? Or why I left?”

“I think you’re stalling,” Dean replies. He crosses his arms over his chest and levels a heavy gaze on her, unimpressed and hard as concrete. “But I have nothing to lose now. You’re trapped, and I’m minutes away from winning this goddamn war anyway. Talk, I suppose. But it won’t come to anything.”

She growls at him, but it doesn’t sound like a confrontational sound. No, to Cas it sounds like a caged animal, scared and wounded, an injured cat puffing itself up to seem more impressive to a wild dog. “I left because Hell is at war with itself, and my good-for-nothing father isn’t going to do anything about it. He hates them, our people. I don’t. I care about them.”

Balthazar coughs and Anna reaches behind herself to pinch his ankle. There’s a muffled sound of surprise, and the basement is once again silent but for the labored breathing of the demon caught in the circle.

“When I assumed power, it was chaos. Earth was just beginning to organize itself, and Hell was years behind. They were still living like savage animals, cruelly picking each other off one by one. My father was the King at that time, my real father. He wanted to organize them like the humans, only better, stronger.” There’s a glint in Christie’s eye now, something malicious and frenzied. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other before continuing. “We were both humans who’d sold our souls to save my mother from her cancer, but he found a way to cheat the system and become a demon without torture. I still don’t know how he did it, but he did, probably because he was a genius. And that genius carried over into his next life. He had a vision, a great one. And he accomplished it too, but he took too many cues from the humans. Hell was male-dominated and those of us who were female—who were quite few in those days, but that didn’t matter—were dismissed. I was furious.”

She stops then, eyes staring off into the distance. Cas has to restrain himself so that he does not follow her gaze to see what, if anything, she’s staring at. Dean clears his throat and she jumps, obviously startled. It’s disconcerting to see such a confident, smooth-talking girl so unhinged like this.

“My father didn’t care much, because in his mind he’d already won. Hell was unified and he was King and I was to be his heir. He was ecstatic, so pleased with his work, that he became distant, and hardly ever spoke to me. He just stopped being there like he used to. I know you think we’re horrible creatures incapable of love, but my father and I did love each other, at least before Hell was brought together. After, he was gone too often. I didn’t know who he was anymore. He was killed three decades after the lower demons banded together, and another King took his place,” Christie continues. Her voice breaks and she swallows hard. Cas can relate. He knows exactly what it’s like to miss a father you never really knew.

Dean glances at the watch on his wrist, the one he always makes sure keeps perfect time. “You have exactly two minutes before I call Crowley to take you home.”

Christie blinks slowly at him, catlike and lazy. She wets her lips before continuing. “The new King didn’t care that I was to be ruler after my father. In his mind, I could not rule, because I was weak and too kind because I was a woman. He didn’t care about me one way or another, which I suppose was a good thing, but it made me furious. I killed him in his sleep two months after he killed my father.

“Then a woman took command, and she was allowed because she was Lucifer’s first. Her name was Lilith, which I suppose you know, and everyone respected her because of her ties to Lucifer. She listened to what I had to say, but otherwise pretended I didn’t exist, choosing to go the way of the former King and ignore my status as heir. I could not kill her because everyone knew and respected her, but you took care of that for me.” Her grin is wide and full of too many teeth, but her eyes are closed-off and haunted.

“And then Crowley. He didn’t care that I was a woman, but he knew that most of Hell still did, and suggested that I take more power and call myself a Prince. I loathed him from the start, as I did with all of Hell’s rulers, but that was his one good suggestion. I took the advice and was given almost as much authority as he had. It worked out, since he knew I hated him and didn’t truly care. He didn’t truly care about any of Hell’s denizens, not in the way I did. I loved my people, but he—he just didn’t care.”

“So you left?” Dean asks, shaking his spray-paint again. Christie shakes her head minutely when he glances at his watch. “Thirty seconds.”

“I left because my people were killing each other and I couldn’t stop it, but I also couldn’t bear to watch! I had to get out, so I ran. Of course he tried to catch me; I’m too powerful to let go. I’m one of the oldest demons in existence, after all,” she babbles, voice strained and high. Cas has to bite his cheek to keep from comforting her. “Please, you can’t make me go back. He’ll finally kill me, and if he doesn’t, then I’ll be forced to watch my people—my _home_ —be torn apart! Please!”

Dean’s voice is quiet and deadly. “Do you even know what I’ve been through recently? I watched my people and home be torn apart, too. I watched my brother die and the goddamn apocalypse start, and I’m still alive. I think you’ll make it.”

“But you aren’t,” Christie whispers, “You aren’t still alive. You’re living, but you’re not alive.”

Dean just carries on his preparations for the summoning.

When Dean is done, and tosses a match carelessly into the only remaining bowl of herbs and blood. It fizzes and sparks and when it’s done, there’s another man in the basement.

Crowley looks at them as if he’s caught between boredom and annoyance, pausing in the act of taking a sip from a shot glass in his hand. He seems to decide upon boredom, and finishes his drink without taking his eyes off Dean.

“So, what do you want now?” he demands, tone sarcastically pleased. “Here to try and cajole me into pleading with the angels for help? The answer is no.”

“We found your kid,” Dean says simply, jerking his chin in Christie’s general direction. Crowley spins toward her, savage delight blooming on his face. Christie shrinks back and bites her bottom lip, crossing her arms in front of her thin body.

“There you are, you little bastard,” Crowley crows, and snaps his fingers. The paint keeping him confined melts, and he steps outside the circle, coming to a stop right outside of Christie’s devil’s trap. Cas can see Dean’s jaw working angrily. He certainly wouldn’t like it that Crowley can get out of a supposedly foolproof trap so easily. Cas makes a mental note to not bring it up, and hopes that the others do the same. “I’ve been looking all over for you! Do you know how hard it is to find a demon in a demon-stack?”

Christie appears to be trembling, hands fisted and shoulders tight, uncharacteristically vulnerable. “I don’t want to go back with you.”

Crowley frowns at her, confused. “Why ever not?”

“Because, in case you haven’t noticed, Hell is at war!” Christie shouts. “It’s bloody and violent and you don’t seem to give a damn whether it tears itself apart!”

“Well, they’re demons. There’s only so much I can care about them before I start to feel… tainted,” Crowley says nonchalantly, shuddering. Christie growls at him, and he looks impressed for a whole second before falling back into annoyance and disapproval. “And they’re almost done fighting by now. Little bastards can’t even carry on a good war.”

“I’m not going back. You’ll just torture me,” Christie says, blue eyes frantic.

Crowley is affronted. “Of course I’m going to torture you. You ran away. You’re not going to get off without any retribution!”

“I won’t go,” she repeats.

“You will,” Crowley snarls, and snaps his fingers.

They’re both gone, one last scream echoing off the cement walls. A piece of paper flutters to the ground in the center of the ruined devil’s trap, and Dean bends slowly, catching it with trembling fingers. He scans it for a moment with closed-off eyes, mouth set in a hard line. He straightens up and stalks across the basement, shaking when he hands the letter to Cas.

_Morons,_  
Thank you for returning my Prince, really. I appreciate what you’ve done by finding the bastard. Don’t think I forgot about our deal. You’re lucky I’m a kind person. I’m risking my neck to do this for you, you know. The portal doesn’t only work one way, after all. If they wanted, the angels could come through and kill me as soon as I try to open it. Be grateful.  
-Crowley 

Cas has barely finished reading the note when the ground shakes. Chuck gasps and clutches at Becky’s arm. He winces and puts a hand to his head, eyes screwing shut, pain flitting across his face. That’s how Cas knows.

The angels are coming back.

XXXXX

The entire group takes the stairs as fast as possible, sprinting to the front doors to watch outside as the sky is lit up in fantastic flashes of lightning, spearing through the ever-present clouds and striking earth, setting up a ceaseless cacophony of thunder. Becky has to help Chuck stand; he’s leaning heavily against her with his eyes squeezed shut, occasionally making small whimpering sounds in time with the lightning.

The ground shakes again, and pill bottles go rolling away off the shelves, clattering and fetching up against each other, creating a smaller background noise to accompany the sonic booming of the angels. Cas can feel his eyes pricking with the threat of tears, and a look at his siblings’ faces proves that he isn’t the only one experiencing strong emotion. Balthazar and Anna are reverent, Gabriel is frightened.

Dean expels a deep breath, and his expression is triumphant, eyes shining in the light created by the angels. He stares up into the sky with a grin and a laugh, as if he’s forgotten that he’ll be all but dead soon if he carries out his insane plan.

Again the ground quakes, and shelves go toppling into one another. Jody, usually calm and collected, jumps at the sudden noise. Charlie grabs her elbow for support, wide eyes glued to the roiling mass of clouds. Jody nods in agreement with the unspoken awe. Merchandise is clattering to the tile all over the store, the nine people in the doorway holding onto each other and the walls to keep from falling. Above, lightning forks and licks at the sky with a fiery tongue, imprinting splotches of green and blue on Cas’ eyelids when he looks away.

Dean turns to him suddenly, and he knows. It’s time.

Dean takes Cas’ hands in his own, staring intently into his eyes, gaze searching. Cas holds still, not entirely sure of what Dean wants or needs to see in him. But it seems that he’s found it, because he leans forward and presses his lips to Cas’, and pulls him into a tight embrace. He whispers in Cas’ ear, stubble scratching against the tender skin there. “Cas, I have to do this. I’m sorry we never got to be together, really together. We—we could have been great. And I’m sorry. And, I want you to know, I loved you. I have for a while, and I know you don’t feel the same, but I do. Remember that.”

And then he’s gone, ripping himself away from Cas before Cas can scream after him, return the words, hold his hunter close and keep him from harm and never let him go. He wants to stop Dean, to stop all of this, but Dean is gone and standing in the middle of the empty parking lot, staring straight up to the sky, face illuminated by the sparks and flashes he must see there. He’s grinning, ear to ear, the grin of a dying man who is being granted his last wish, a manic thing that doesn’t belong on such a closed-off, solemn face. And Dean Winchester, the Righteous Man, he who was pulled from Hell because God commanded it, because there were plans for him, because he was needed to save a world that didn’t want to be saved—Dean opens his mouth and screams.

_“Yes!”_

He stiffens suddenly, and Cas wants desperately to tear his eyes away, but he can’t. All he can do is watch as Dean’s eyes light up, and a piercing ringing fills the air. Celestial light pours forth from Dean’s eyes and mouth, the holy white spilling forth into the gloom. Cas squints to see through the haze of bluish-white light, struggling to make out Dean’s face through it. Michael is taking over, pouring heavenly intent into Dean’s body, cramming his all-powerful true form into the small mortal body, filling it entirely and taking control of movement and thought. Cas has to cover his ears when the shrill ringing gets louder.

His siblings appear fine, listening to the shriek without a problem, eyes wide in the presence of their most powerful brother. Dean’s form is entirely inhabited by something other, something not of his world, something that can’t quite fit itself inside and is spilling out through his eyes. The sheer power of the Grace is enough to send Chuck into a trancelike state, and he crumples to the ground. Becky falls to her knees beside him, but Cas doesn’t spare them a glance. He can’t look away from Dean.

From what once was Dean.

Abruptly the glow is gone, the ringing is gone, and the earth is holding still once more. The sky has gone back to a dirty grey, sliver of moon peeking from behind thick clouds. Dean kneels in the center of the parking lot, having fallen to his knees when Michael’s power overwhelmed him. As Cas watches, Dean--Michael, now--extends an arm, flexing his hand and staring with an uncharacteristic softness, a wondering gaze that Dean has never worn. It’s alien and wrong on such a familiar face.

Michael stands, wobbly on new legs. He rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck, settling into the confines of this new form. His eyes are downcast, watching in amazement as Dean’s fingers open and close one by one. Cas lets out the breath he’s been holding since Dean left him.

Michael’s head snaps up, eyes narrowing in the direction of the sound. His eyes—Dean’s eyes—are a pure white, glowing dimly. The pure power of an archangel was never meant to be confined in an earthly vessel for long, and it spills forth into his irises, lighting them with an unnatural glow from within. Cas finds that he can’t look at this face, that face that once smiled softly at him, or spat insults, or offered soothing words. It isn’t Dean’s anymore, so it doesn’t matter.

“Castiel,” Michael says softly, Dean’s vocal chords working to produce a lilting, musical sound nothing like that which they should have made. He tilts his head in the characteristic pose of an angel, watching Cas with those eerie white eyes, face completely blank. “Brother. How far you’ve fallen.”

“Michael,” he acknowledges, avoiding looking into those eyes.

“It had to be this way,” Michael says, and Cas knows that he’s right, but that certainly does not lessen what he’s feeling. “He was the only one who could contain my power. You understand.”

Cas nods, but he doesn’t understand at all. He doesn’t understand why this war was necessary in the first place, or why it had to be the Winchesters (his Winchesters) or why it mattered so much to the other angels. He doesn’t understand why their father left them, left and never returned even when things got bad. He doesn’t understand why he’s feeling so violently, emotions roiling and ricocheting off the crumbling walls in his mind. He doesn’t and he can’t.

“Truly, brother, I am sorry,” Michael repeats, and turns his attention to the others. He addresses the group at large now, louder. “Tomorrow I will fight my brother. You must all be far away by then, or you will be killed in battle. Humans cannot keep up with our pace of fighting.”

No one answers, and Michael seems to take that as agreement. His empty white eyes pass once more over their ragtag bunch, and then he’s gone, leaving the parking lot as empty as Cas’ heart.

END CHAPTER SEVEN

They assemble on the couches in the main area, clearing away debris with their feet, making sure they avoid stepping on pill bottles. They might need them later, after the final battle is fought, to tend to each other’s wounds and to soothe themselves into a sleep without nightmares. Cas knows firsthand how wonderful a full night of sleep can be after months of horrible dreams and shallow naps.

He wants to take some of the sleep aids now to calm his nerves, or relocate his whiskey. But he promised Dean, and it was the last thing Dean asked of him—except to remember, but he refuses to dwell on that—and he’s honor-bound to uphold his dying wish, even if the wish interferes with his own peace of mind.

Gabriel and Anna sit together, Balthazar between them, silent and slightly dazed. They’re cramped onto one couch with barely enough room to breathe, but they either don’t mind or don’t notice, and just sit there. Cas can sympathize; seeing such a powerful being, feeling their Grace deep within your own, will change you, even if you do make it out alive. The three angels appear confused, or frightened, or empty. Gabriel is the only one who isn’t completely out of it, but even he is much more subdued than usual.

The humans in their party are no better. Charlie and Jody have claimed the air mattress, sitting side-by-side without talking, twin expressions of grief shadowing their faces. They don’t move and barely blink. Chuck is sprawled on the other loveseat, unconscious with Becky sitting by his head.

Cas doesn’t know what to do, so he turns on the radio. He sits in front of it and stares at his hands, because there’s nothing else. The radio plays soft, static-edges music, familiar enough that Cas can name which tape it was on when he listened to it with Dean. Metallica.

When the song ends, the voice of the announcer comes on, winded and mildly panicked, but laced with delight all the same. “Sorry to interrupt your evening broadcast, folks, but this is big. Over here in Buster, we can see the sky above Hope lighting up and we can hear thunder. It’s too localized to be a storm, and it sure isn’t fireworks. All we can come up with is that those freedom-fighters figured it out. We might be saved yet.”

Gabriel gestures to the radio, and it shuts off with a short burst of white noise. No one complains. They all sit there in silence, occasionally coughing or drawing a hand across their face to rid themselves of traitorous tears. Cas swallows hard.

“We should all sleep, if we’re going to be fighting tomorrow. I’ve seen how Heaven and Hell fight, and Michael was right when he said that we cannot keep up. We’ll be killed if we try it without being properly rested,” Cas says, not even noticing when he slips back into a more formal manner of speaking, back to the way he was when he first met the Winchester boys.

Gabriel nods, blinking as if coming out of a daze. “Yeah, and none of you are trained. Can any of you fight at all?”

Silence reigns for another minute before Becky clears her throat. “If he wakes up, Chuck can. He’s seen enough fights that he can almost fend for himself, if he has to. And I’ve taken a few classes at the community center, but I doubt that it will help much.”

It makes Cas want to sob, that the once lively, energetic, over-enthusiastic girl is so subdued now.

Charlie nods once and speaks, voice level and hushed in the dark of the pharmacy. “I used to do all kinds of combat, but that was with wooden swords. I can swing one and I know the logistics of it, but I don’t think I’d actually be able to fight with one.”

“I’m a trained police officer,” Jody offers, monotone and quiet. “I can use a gun and I know my way around a knife.”

Gabriel looks put-out, but he brightens up with some effort. “Then we have four people who were actually trained to do this shit, one person who was trained to do slightly lesser shit, two people who can almost do the lesser shit, and one comatose prophet. Excellent. We have this fight in the bag.” He doesn’t sound bitter or sarcastic, and Cas wonders if he’s finally cracked.

“We’re fighting on the angels’ side, remember,” Anna murmurs. She brushes a strand of red hair out of her face. “They’re superior fighters, compared to the demons, even though they’re lesser in number. So long as we’re careful, we can make it. We might not die.”

She doesn’t sound entirely sure of herself.

XXXXX

They wake up the next morning and stare at one another for a full ten minutes before getting to their feet, stretching aching muscles and cracking joints that have been sitting still far too long. They all managed to fall asleep in their positions from the night before, and complaints of neck and back pain run rampant.

Gabriel, Anna, and Balthazar all summon their blades, and Gabriel waves his hand until four more blink into existence. Chuck, still asleep on the couch, is only roused by the squeak Becky makes when she drops hers on her foot. Luckily it wasn’t tip-down, and Chuck is roused and handed a blade and told to do what he can with it.

Gabriel approaches Cas while Balthazar and Anna are occupied with giving basic instructions to the other humans, pulling him to the side and whispering. “I have your old sword, if you want it.”

Cas nods, trying to keep the eagerness out of his eyes. Gabriel, sympathy running rampant across his soft features, holds out the pristine white sword, and Cas takes it carefully, mindful of the now-unfamiliar weight in his hand. Gabriel leaves him to it and joins in on the lesson.

Cas hefts the sword and decides that he’s out of practice as well, and begins to try some of the more basic maneuvers from training in the garrison. He can do most of them, feet unsure and unsteady when he attempts to whirl and duck. He manages to stay on them, though, and moves on to more complex things. These he can almost manage, missing the weight of his Grace on his shoulders to slow him down and stop him before he loses balance. He nods in acceptance and decides that he really has nothing left to live for, and it doesn’t matter if he can properly defend himself.

Anna leads the group outside and selects two trucks, heavy-duty and splattered with dried mud. She places a hand on each hood and they roar to life, doors unlocked and ready to go. She can sense the place that Heaven and Hell are massing, about a mile outside of town, in a clearing in the woods. She takes the bigger of the two trucks, and Gabriel and Balthazar join her in it. Cas drives the other, with Becky, Chuck, and Jody with him. They start off, Anna leading the way, radios off and windows rolled up against the early November chill.

In the passenger seat, Jody asks him, “You were an angel once. What happened?”

He shrugs and takes his hands off the wheel for only a moment. “I became human.”

“Welcome to the club,” she mutters, and he laughs bitterly.

“I used to belong to a much better club.”

XXXXX

They park their trucks in the field, gathering between them to say goodbye. At least, that’s the intention. No one can bring themselves to say anything. They end up staring numbly at each other, blinking and breathing and soaking in each other’s’ presence, the pure life of it all. The angels hug, and they each hug Cas as well. Becky presses a small kiss to Chuck’s forehead. Charlie bites her bottom lip and wipes away a tear, trying to smile through the dread and terror.

And then Gabriel’s head snaps up and he says, “It’s starting.”

Cas fumbles with his sword, not used to holding it. The cool metal is smooth against his calloused palms. Next to him, Balthazar smudges a smoldering cigarette into the dirt with his heel. Gabriel hefts his sword in his hand, Becky and Charlie copying his grip with slow, deliberate movements. Anna is talking quietly with Chuck while she looks into his eyes, searching for concussion. 

Suddenly, there’s a great tearing, rending sound, as if all of the universes are splitting in two at once. Cas blinks, and when he opens his eyes, the field before him is filled with bodies, writhing and slashing, bleeding and falling. To the untrained eye, the battle appears to have been going on for hours already. But to a former angel, this is simply the style of war.

“Nice knowing you!” Gabriel shouts, and plunges into the fray. Anna, savage grin on her pretty face, follows. Becky and Charlie trade frightened glances and stand next to each other, swords held in front of them, ready to fend off an attack at any second. Balthazar curses, adjusts his grip, and leaps into the fight. Jody grabs Chuck by the arm and drags him into battle.

Cas can’t move, not yet. He has to see Dean.

_There._ In the middle of a throng of angels, snarling at a bloodied demon, is Michael. Dean’s face is twisted into such an expression of hatred and anger that it startles Cas, shocking him. It’s the very expression he always dreaded having directed at him, deserved to be given, and somehow never got.

“Castiel!” Gabriel yells over the din of battle. “Little help here?”

Cas launches himself into the fight with abandon, caring little if he gets injured. After all, he doesn’t matter anymore. Dean said yes, the angels are back, and the final battle is being fought. After today, he won’t really matter ever again.

It’s oddly freeing.

Cas stands next to Gabriel, sword held out, and returns the grateful nod Gabriel gives him. There is blood smeared all over the ground, both demon and angel, and Gabriel is already covered in it. His face is dark and grim, tears sparkling in his eyes, and Cas realizes just why he left home in the first place: so he wouldn’t have to do _this._

He parries blow after blow, slashing and stabbing until his blade is coated with red and there is a small pile of broken, lifeless bodies at his feet. Gabriel nods at him once and heads off to fight his own battles, leaving Cas to struggle to stay alive.

A demon grins at him, eyes black and empty, and brandishes her knife. Cas sighs heavily and engages, blades clashing together savagely. It doesn’t take long for Cas to finish the fight with a sword stuck clean through the demon’s stomach. She falls to the ground with a gurgle.

As soon as she’s gone, another takes her place. This one is wearing a young man in a suit, long blade clutched in one hand. Cas shakes his head sadly, trying to plead with the demon with his eyes. _Please, I don’t want to fight._ The demon nods briskly and retreats, stabbing an angel in the back as he goes.

It’s one after another, duck and dodge and slash and swipe, for what seems like hours on end. Cas counts the lives he takes, and his count amasses to thirty-six. Not as high as he used to get, when he fought as God’s soldier, an angel of the lord, but still enough to cause him physical pain. He hates battle, even if he is good at it.

All over the battlefield, it is chaos. Black smoke shoots upward in a desperate attempt to escape certain death. Lightning flashes overhead, casting into sharp relief the shadows of the angel’s wings. Here and there, a blinding flash of light takes over the landscape, signaling the loss of an angel.

“Castiel!” Balthazar shrieks. Cas turns on his heel, coat whipping out behind him. He makes sure to hold his sword out in front of his chest, fending off any surprise attacks. He takes the head off a young woman that way, though he knows not whether she’s a demon or an angel. It doesn’t really matter anymore.

“Balthazar!” Cas calls back, eyes desperately scanning the battlefield.

“Here!” Balthazar screams. He’s trading blows with a tall demon, losing ground quickly, bleeding from a dozen places on his torso. “Castiel!”

Cas sprints, as fast as he possibly can, but he knows he won’t make it. Even as he reaches his brother’s side, the demon’s sword is stuck through Balthazar’s ribcage. Cas plunges his blade into the demon, who falls without a protest, and drops to his knees next to the fallen body of his brother.

“Balthazar!” Cas screams.

Balthazar’s eyes are staring blankly upward, frozen in a look of surprise. His blond hair is stained with the blood of those he must have slain, and there is blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. His vessel shudders out one final breath. The light, Balthazar’s Grace, burns his skin and forces him to shut his eyes, searing pain along his upper arms marking singed wings. Cas screams.

He doesn’t stop until Anna drags him away from the lifeless body of his brother, his friend.

XXXXX

The battle is fierce, bloody and timeless. Cas can’t tell how much time has passed, but he knows that he’s exhausted and bruised, and has at least one broken rib. His sword is stained rusty red with the blood of both friends and enemies alike, along with the rest of him. He’s not sure how much he can take.

He’s slashing at a redheaded demon when it happens.

Everything goes silent. The angels and demons stop in their individual battles, and stare in awe at the two men facing each other in the center of the battlefield. Cas watches in horror as Michael and Lucifer meet, twin grins of pure savage pleasure on their faces.

He takes a step forward, desperate to get closer to Dean. He’s halfway to them when he is stabbed from behind. Pain blossoms across his back, and he falls into the bloodstained dirt, gasping. The tip of an angel blade is sticking out of the front of his chest, glowing dimly.

The blade is yanked unceremoniously from his back by the demon that stabbed him. Cas retches, agony bubbling across his skin. He can’t breathe, he can’t think, he can’t get up. Black spots dance in front of his eyes, and all he knows is that he can’t die without seeing Dean one last time.

It’s a good thing he isn’t an angel anymore, or he wouldn’t have the chance. He’d be dead already, light exploding from his eyes and mouth, leaving behind only the ashy outlines of wings on the red-stained grass.

Cas coughs up a mouthful of blood, pain singing through his ribcage—just like Balthazar must have felt, he thinks savagely—and crawls forward, dragging himself closer to where the archangels are bickering. He stops once he gets within earshot, whimpering in the trampled grass. He struggles to keep his head upright, eyes locked on Michael and Lucifer.

Michael is smirking, Dean’s lips twisted into a shape they would never have made last week, head tilted slightly upward so that his blank white eyes can focus on his brother. “Good to see you, I suppose.”

“And you,” Lucifer’s grin is vicious, utterly foreign on Sam’s face. “Long time.”

“A few thousand years,” Michael allows with a shrug.

“How has Heaven been?” Lucifer asks, running a finger down the edge of his sword.

Michael flips a hand in the air dismissively. “Oh, you know. Angels, singing, absent father. How’s Hell?”

“Same old,” Lucifer says.

Michael nods understandingly. “So, how’s Sam been?”

“Pretty good. Been in here for about nine months,” Lucifer says with a shrug. “I’ve finally gotten used to being so big.”

Michael laughs, but furrows his brow in confusion. “You’ve only been in charge for eight months,” he points out. Cas feels his eyes widen. He knows what’s coming, but he wishes fervently that he didn’t.

“Ask Dean a question for me,” Lucifer orders, pointing a finger at Michael. “Does he remember when Sammy died, and he kept protesting being called by his name? I was in his head, sitting quietly in the background. Sam could sense it. Subconsciously, he knew he wasn’t Sam anymore. You should have seen it, Mikey. He didn’t even know I was there. Poor little Sammy thought he was just getting headaches, little migraines that didn’t want to go away. It was almost sad to watch, but not really. I even got to watch Dean and Castiel cry over his unconscious body. Great fun.”

Michael nods approvingly, and Cas wants to scream again. In Michael’s dimly glowing eyes, he can see a flicker of horror, of green, replaced instantly with confusion. Cas feels a small surge of pride; Dean is in there, still fighting. If it weren’t so awfully sad, he would be pleased with Dean’s tenacity.

“I have another question for you,” Michael says, running a finger down his blade. “Why are our darling departed brothers alive again? I know I saw Gabriel and Balthazar out there, and Anna tried to stab me twice.”

Lucifer grins wickedly. “I was trying to separate Castiel from Dean, to try and weaken the resistance. Have you seen the two of them? Completely dependent on each other. Poor little Cassie blaming himself for everything and convinced that Dean can never love him back, and poor little Dean running around with half a heart, all of which is dedicated to Castiel. In love, but not together. Pathetic.”

The two grin at each other, obviously taking immense pleasure in the bloodshed and pain they’ve caused. Cas wants to curl up and die, seeing both sets of his brothers like this, but he can’t. At least, not while Dean is still in there somewhere.

“I guess this is it,” Lucifer says slowly, still tapping his fingers on his sword. “Huh. Feels weird, now that it’s here. Like it’s finally your birthday, or something, and you’ve been waiting all year and now it’s here, and it’s disappointing and anticlimactic.”

“We don’t have birthdays, let alone disappointing ones,” Michael laughs. “But I understand. Dean here had a lot of those.”

“So did Sam,” Lucifer agrees ruefully. He sighs heavily. “Goodbye, brother.”

“Goodbye, brother,” Michael echoes, and then their blades clash.

XXXXX

Cas watches in horror as his brothers fight to the death.

Metal sings against metal, flashes in the sunlight, glinting brightly and blindingly.

Lucifer laughs like a feral animal as he strikes and parries, his laughter echoed by Michael. They’re enjoying this.

Neither can strike a blow on the other. As soon as Michael’s sword gets anywhere near Sam’s body, Lucifer dances out of the way. Any time Lucifer’s blade comes close to Dean’s ribs, Michael leaps to the side, out of the reach of the sword. The two trade blows in a balanced give-and-take, neither winning and neither losing. They are truly equals, in every way, both bright as the sun and black as sin, powerful and terrible, forces of nature pitted against one another.

Cas screams every time they get near each other, and he’s not the only one. He is, however, the only one screaming from terror and pain. The rest are cheering on their leader, bloodthirstily shouting encouragement at their general, savage cruelty ringing loud for all to hear.

His screams only get louder when the dance is done. A sword is piercing each body, hands clutching at shoulders in one last desperate attempt to seek comfort from an absent brother. Both men fall, angels locked in their minds, clutching each other to their chests.

They fall in each other’s arms, just as they would have wanted, two pairs of brothers who loved each other and betrayed each other.

XXXXX

The sounds of the battle are muted, and everything is in slow motion. Cas is screaming, and even though his throat is torn and bloodied from all the screaming he did earlier, he doesn’t stop until Dean hits the ground, right next to Sam, angelic swords stuck through both of them.

His dirty nails tear when he claws himself, bleeding and broken, to Dean’s side. Lucifer’s sword is still lodged in Dean’s chest, and Cas knows he can’t take it out. It would allow Michael to leave his vessel, and then they would be right back where they started, just under different management.

“Dean!” Cas shouts, blood dripping from his lips. Dean flutters his eyelids, barely breathing. Michael is still in there, just hiding in the back of Dean’s mind. “Dean, please!”

Dean struggles to wrench his eyes open, glassy green locking onto bright blue. His red-stained lips twitch upward, and he shudders out a shallow breath. “Cas.”

“Dean,” Cas repeats. There’s not much left to say, anyway. Around him, the battle has stopped, with the forces of Heaven and Hell beginning to retreat and the humans falling, one by one, to the ground to lay bleeding and dying in the damp grass. Cas doesn’t notice.

“Hey,” Dean breathes.

Cas claws his way closer, lifeless legs dragging out behind him. He grips Dean’s hand tightly, but Dean doesn’t respond. Cas can feel hot tears tracing their way down his cheeks, mingling with the blood and dirt of battle. He stifles a sob.

“Don’t,” Cas begs, unable to form complete sentences.

“Sorry,” Dean whispers, nearly inaudible.

There’s a flash of stinging light from the lifeless body next to Dean’s. Lucifer is gone, then, and since Sam died long ago, Cas doesn’t pay it any attention. As if seizing his last victory, Michael dies in an explosion of light and sound that shines from Dean’s eyes and mouth and stings Cas’ broken skin, causing him to squeeze his eyes closed against the pain of it. When he opens them again, Dean’s eyelids have fluttered shut.

“Dean!” Cas pleads, and Dean wrenches his eyes open again. He coughs, blood trickling from his mouth, and groans. “Hey, keep your eyes open,” Cas orders softly.

“’Kay,” Dean whispers, and makes a struggling effort to maintain eye contact.

Cas is forced to close his eyes again when the Host begins departing. He can feel the heat and sting of their Grace as they leave their vessels, taking wing and going home. He wants nothing more than to join them, but at the same time he curses them. It is their fault he’s here, cradling a dying man, coated in the blood of his brothers. Cas wrenches his eyes open as soon as he’s sure it’s safe and digs his torn nails into Dean’s palm, breaking the skin and drawing tiny beads of blood to the surface.

“I did it,” Dean breathes, nearly inaudible, triumphant smile playing at the corners of bloodstained lips.

Cas nods, barely aware of the pain the movement brings. “Yeah. We did.”

“Good,” Dean murmurs, eyes fluttering closed for an instant. He manages to get them open again, holding Cas’ gaze with a fierceness only a dying man can muster. “Loved you.”

“Dean!” Dean makes an obvious effort to open his eyes again. Cas is sobbing now, but Dean hasn’t shed a single tear. Instead, he’s staring blankly at the stars, damned smile on his bloody face, breath rattling thinly in and out of punctured lungs.

“Don’t leave me,” Cas cries, voice thick with desperation. “Please! I love you!”

Dean isn’t breathing anymore.

Cas wishes he weren’t.

XXXXX

It’s two minutes later that Cas finally tears his gaze from the man he loved. By now, Gabriel and Anna have started to cart off the dead, patch up the wounded, and carry away the living. He can hear that Becky is crying, and he can hear Chuck shushing her. He can’t hear anything from the others, and doesn’t dare look up. He’s trying to burn Dean’s face into his mind, sear it into his memories, so that even at his highest he won’t forget it. He can’t forget.

“Castiel,” Anna murmurs softly, hand light on his shoulder. “Please, look at me.”

Cas, too full of grief to refuse an order from a former superior, obeys. Anna’s hair is wild around her face, and there are tear tracks all down her cheeks. Hey eyes are red-rimmed, but deep inside is a sense of triumph that Cas doubts he’ll ever feel again.

“Come with me,” she whispers, taking his hand. Cas shakes his head vehemently. He can’t leave Dean.

Gabriel leaves the carnage and stands next to Anna, shuddering with stifled sobs. He pulls himself together a bit to say, “He’s gone, Cassie. I’m sorry, but he’s gone.”

Each of his siblings takes one of his hands, and he allows them to lift him to his feet. He can feel them healing his wounds, stitching shut the stab in the back that missed most important organs, replacing lost blood and closing gashes. Anna lets go once he’s standing, and bends to lift Dean’s body. Gabriel, small as he is, is able to manhandle Cas into the backseat of one of their trucks. Anna carries Dean’s body to the bed of the truck and places it gently with the others, on top of one in a black V-neck sweater, between a redheaded woman and a police officer, hand resting against the white-suited arm of his brother.

Gabriel gets in the backseat next to him, and Cas clings to his brother’s sleeve as if it’s the only lifeboat on board during a hurricane. Gabriel meets his eyes, tears streaming down his cheeks, and lets out a shaky breath. Cas goes limp, and it’s not long before both angels are crying, holding onto each other for comfort and protection just like they did when they were fledglings and their older brothers were going at each other’s throats.

The truck’s engine starts up, with Chuck presumably behind the wheel. It peels out of the field, heading back to the drugstore. Cas doesn’t watch it go.

Anna gets in the front seat and turns the key in the ignition. She doesn’t say anything, just turns on the radio, most likely trying to drown out the soft whimpers of her brothers. Neither of them notices that she’s crying too. Cas, at least, doesn’t notice much of anything, so lost is he, but his mind latches onto one small, insignificant detail.

The radio is playing a Kansas song.


End file.
